The Long Glasgow Kiss (3 page)

‘Yeah … just like. My God, it doesn’t take long for word to get around. MacFarlane’s not cold yet. Is that why you had Twinkletoes and smiling lad pick me up?’

Sneddon cast a glance over his shoulder at the crowd. ‘Let’s go over to the main house. It’s quieter …’

I’d been to Sneddon’s house in Bearsden, a mock-baronial mansion with manicured gardens, a few times. This place was totally different. As soon as I stepped into the entrance hallway I knew that this was a business premises. From the outside it was a Victorian farmhouse; inside it was a Victorian brothel, all thick velvet crimson drapes, chaises-longues and Rubenesque tits in frames on the walls. The living room of the house had been converted into a bar with scattered sofas. On one a working girl sat with a bored expression as a drunken customer drooled and pawed inexpertly at her. Mel Tormé crooned from a record player in the corner, and the bar was manned by another girl in her early twenties who, too, had applied too much make-up and too little frock.

‘What do you think?’ asked Sneddon in a tone that suggested he didn’t give a toss what I thought.

‘Nice ambience. Brings out the romantic in me.’

Sneddon snorted an approximation of a laugh. He tapped Twinkletoes on the chest and nodded in the direction of the drunk and the girl. Twinkletoes obliged by conducting them out of the lounge.

‘So what’s a nice boy like me doing in a place like this?’ I asked. Sneddon told the girl behind the counter to pour us a couple of whiskies and I noticed she brought a single malt up from beneath the bar. The good stuff.

‘You was at Small Change’s place tonight. What business do you have with him? Was he getting you to do a bit of sniffing for him?’

‘The only sniffing I’ve been doing has been around his daughter. All pleasure, no business.’

‘You sure?’ Sneddon narrowed his eyes. It made him look all brow, which was an advantage in Glasgow. Athens had been the cradle of democracy, Florence had given the world the Renaissance, Glasgow had refined, to a precise art, the head butt. The Glasgow Kiss, as it was affectionately known amongst the nations of the world. ‘I would be
put out
if you was being less than square with me.’

‘Listen, Mr Sneddon, I would think a long time before I’d lie to you. I know Twinkletoes didn’t get his name because he dances like Fred Astaire. I’m attached to my toes and I like to think it’s a mutual arrangement. And anyway, I was asked the same thing tonight by Superintendent McNab.’

‘McNab?’ Sneddon put his glass down on the bar. ‘What the fuck is he involved for? I thought it was a robbery gone wrong.’

‘It’s a big case, I guess. Small Change was high profile,’ I said, hiding how impressed I was with the speed and accuracy of Sneddon’s intelligence-gathering operation. Then I realized I was part of it. ‘Anyway, he took a lot of convincing that I wasn’t involved with MacFarlane.’

‘So you had nothing to do with Small Change or his business?’

‘Like I said, I’m seeing his daughter, that’s all. What’s the problem?’

Sneddon waved his hand at me as if he had been flicking away an annoying fly. ‘Nothin’. It’s just that I had some business going on with Small Change.’

‘Oh?’

Sneddon gave me a look. ‘Listen, Lennox, if you’re hanging around MacFarlane’s place, you can maybes help me out.’

‘If I can …’ I said and smiled, hiding the sinking feeling in my gut.

‘Keep me up to date on what the coppers are getting up to. And, if you get a chance, see if you can find anything like Small Change’s diary. Appointment book. Whatever he kept details of meetings in. Or maybe a log book with events and stuff in it.’

‘May I ask why?’

‘No you fucking can’t.’ Then he sighed, as if relenting to a child’s demand for ice cream. ‘Okay … I had a meeting with Small Change this afternoon. A
project
we was working on together. I’m moving into the fight game … not like tonight – something more than a couple of pikeys knocking the shite out of each other. Real boxing. I was talking to MacFarlane about a couple of fighters. Things could get
complicated
if the police found out.’

‘And what was Small Change bringing to the table?’

‘It’s not important. Listen, this deal was nothing big. I just don’t want that kind of police attention. I never want police attention. But specially not if that fucker McNab’s heading the case. Can you check it out for me or not?’

I made a big deal of thinking it over. ‘I’m not trying to be funny, Mr Sneddon, but if I had an appointment with you, I don’t think it’s the kind of thing I’d put in a diary. I mean … that could be evidence, like you say. I don’t think MacFarlane had the kind of business that he would want recorded somewhere.’

‘That’s because you don’t think the way me and MacFarlane do. I have a diary. Every fucking appointment, every talk I have with Murphy or Cohen goes into it. Like you say, evidence. King’s Evidence if I ever need it. Cohen and Murphy do the same thing. Insurance. And I know that MacFarlane had a mind like a fucking sieve … only when it came to things like that. As a bookie he could tell you what was running where and when and what the odds were, right off the top of his head. But stuff like meetings he’d have to write times and dates down or he’d forget.’

‘I don’t think I can help. The coppers took away boxes of stuff from his study. I’d guess they’ve already got their hands on his diary.’

‘You’re smarter than that, Lennox.’ Sneddon fixed me with a hard stare. ‘Small Change wouldn’t keep his diary somewhere obvious, and the coppers are too fucking stupid to look anywheres that’s not obvious. You know something, if I had a suspicious nature I’d start wondering if you don’t want to help me. I would maybes even start to think you’ve been trying to avoid me. Maybes even Murphy and Cohen too. What’s the matter, Lennox … getting too good for us?’

‘I’ve done more than my fair share for you, Sneddon …’ I put my glass down on the bar; I was maybe going to need my hands free. If only for Twinkletoes to lop my fingers off. ‘If I remember rightly, it was me you called when you were hauled off down to St. Andrew’s Square last year. I don’t think you, Murphy or Cohen have anything to complain about. But you’re not my only clients.’

Sneddon looked at me with a sneer. ‘Okay, Lennox. You’re a tough guy – I get it. Find Small Change’s appointment book – or whatever he used to keep that kinda stuff in – and deliver it to me and I’ll pay you three hundred quid. Whether my name’s in it or not.’

‘I’ll have a look if I can.’ I had told Sneddon I’d think long and hard before I lied to him; when it came to it I did it in the bat of an eyelid: I had no intention of snooping around the MacFarlane house on his behalf. But there again, three hundred quid was three hundred quid. It was best to keep my options open. ‘Was that all you wanted to see me about?’

‘There was something else.’

I fixed my smile with glue. Sneddon saw through it.

‘That’s if it isn’t fucking beneath you to do a job for me, Lennox,’ he said maliciously.

‘Of course not.’

‘Anyway, you don’t need to worry, you won’t get your hands dirty. It’s a legit job.’

‘What is it?’

‘Like I said, I’m getting into the fight game. Me and Jonny the kike have each got a share in a fighter.’

‘You and Handsome Jonny Cohen?’

‘Yeah, me and Cohen. You got a problem with that?’

‘Me? Not at all. It’s very
ecumenical
of you.’

‘I’m not prejudiced. I’ll do business with anyone. Absolutely anyone.’ He paused. ‘Except Fenians, of course. Anyways, this young fighter we’ve got shares in … he’s going places. He has a coupon-mashing right hook. The thing is, he’s been getting a bit of grief.’

‘What kind of grief?’

‘Fucking stupid stuff. A dead bird put through his letterbox, paint on his car, that kinda shite.’

‘Sounds like he’s upset someone. Has he spoken to the police?’

Sneddon gave me a look. ‘Aye … seeing as I have such a cosy relationship with them, that’s the first thing I said he should do. Use your head, Lennox. If the polis start sniffing about then they’ll sooner or later end up on my doorstep or Jonny Cohen’s. We’d both rather keep our investment quiet. It was Cohen what said we should get you to look into it. Discreet, like.’

‘Discretion,’ I said sententiously, ‘is my middle name. So who has he pissed off enough to start a vendetta?’

‘No one. Or no one that he can think of. I mean, he’s hurt a few in the ring, but I don’t think that’s what this is all about. I reckon that someone has put a stash on him to lose when he fights the Kraut and they’re just trying to put the wind up him before the fight. You know, like chucking a fish supper into a greyhound’s kennel the night before the race.’

‘Wait a minute … you said before he fights the Kraut. By Kraut do you mean Jan Schmidtke? Is your boxer Bobby Kirkcaldy?’

‘He’s not
my
boxer. I own a piece of him, you could say. So what?’

I blew a long, low whistle. ‘That’s a wise investment, Mr Sneddon. Kirkcaldy’s tasty. And you’re right, he is going places.’

‘Oh …’ Again Sneddon smiled the only way he could. Sneeringly. ‘I am so fucking pleased that my business decisions meet with your approval. Cohen and me both lost sleep worrying that we’d gone ahead without your okay.’

I had to admit, Sneddon was
much
better at sarcasm than McNab. But still nowhere near as good as me.

‘I’m just saying that Kirkcaldy is hot property,’ I said. ‘The stakes are high with him, literally. You got any idea who’s trying to spook him?’

Sneddon shrugged. ‘That’s your job. You find out … if you do, don’t let them know you’re onto them. You want the job?’

‘Usual fees?’

Reaching into his hand-tailoring, Sneddon pulled out his wallet and handed me forty pounds in fives. It was more than most people made in a month but didn’t seem to lighten Sneddon’s wallet too much. ‘There’s another hundred in it for you when you give me a name for who’s behind all this malarkey.’

‘Fair enough.’ I took the money with a smile. It was part of my customer relations policy. There again, smiling when people gave me money came pretty naturally to me. It was a clean job. Legit, like Sneddon had said. All I had to deliver was a name, but I tried not to think too much about what would happen to the face behind the name once I’d delivered it.

‘You said you were talking to Small Change MacFarlane about a couple of fighters. Was Kirkcaldy one of them?’

‘Fuck no. No, it wasn’t nothing in that league. Just a couple of potential up-and-comers, that’s all. Small Change didn’t even know of my interest in Kirkcaldy. You’ve got to fucking watch what you say to bookies. This is Kirkcaldy’s address.’ Sneddon handed me a folded note. ‘Is there anything else you need?’

I made a show of a thoughtful frown, even though the idea had come to me as soon as I had heard mention of Kirkcaldy’s name. ‘Maybe it would be a good idea if you could spring me a ticket for the big fight. Means I can check out anyone dodgy.’

‘I would sincerely fucking hope that you’ve got to the bottom of this before then. But aye … I can manage that. Anything else?’

‘If there is, I’ll let you know,’ I said, inwardly cursing that I hadn’t thought of a reason to ask for two tickets.

‘Right. You can fuck off now,’ said Sneddon. I wondered if the freshly minted Queen followed the same court etiquette. ‘And don’t forget to have a sniff about for Small Change’s appointments book. I’ll get Singer to drive you back to your car. You know Singer, don’t you?’ Sneddon beckoned across to the Teddy Boy who’d driven me and Twinkletoes out to the farm.

‘Oh yeah … we chatted all the way over here.’ I leaned forward conspiratorially. ‘To be honest, I found it difficult to get a word in edgewise …’

Sneddon gave me another of his sneers-or-smiles. ‘Singer’ certainly didn’t seem to like my witticism, I could have been becoming paranoid, but I thought I detected even more menace in his lurking.

‘Aye …’ said Sneddon. ‘Singer’s not much of a conversationalist. Not much of a singer either come to that, are you, Singer?’

Singer interrupted his lurk long enough to shake his head.

‘You could say Singer is a man of action, not words.’ Sneddon paused to take a cigarette from a gold cigarette case so heavy it threatened to sprain his wrist. He didn’t offer me one. ‘Singer’s Da was a real bastard. Used to beat the shite out of him when he was a kiddie. Knocked his mother about too. You know, more than normal. But Singer had this talent. He got it from his Ma. He had a cracking wee voice on him. Or so people tell me. Never heard it myself. Anyways, at weddings and shite like that Singer and his Ma was always asked to stand up and give a song. Not that he took much asking, did you, Singer? He used to sing all the time. The only thing the wee bastard had …’

I looked at Singer who returned my stare emptily. He was obviously used to Sneddon discussing his most intimate personal history with a complete stranger. Either that or he just didn’t care.

‘But it used to wind up his Da no end. He’d come home drunk and no one was allowed to make a sound. Any peep out of Singer and his Da would kick the shite out of him. Literally, sometimes. Then one day Singer’s old man comes back with a really black one on. Wee Singer is innocently chirping away with his Ma in the kitchen, but his Da gets the idea that there should be a meal on the table for him. He goes fucking mental. He grabs Singer and starts to beat the shite out of him. So his Ma comes to try to defend the wee fella. So do you know what he does?’

I shrugged. I looked at Singer: I had a good four inches on him, but he was a hard-looking bastard. Vicious-looking. But I didn’t like listening to Sneddon rejoicing in his misery.

‘He cut Singer’s Ma’s throat,’ Sneddon answered his own question. There was a hint of awe in his voice. ‘Took a penknife – a penknife mind – and cut her throat from ear to ear, right in front of the wee fella. So Singer’s never sung – or spoken – since.’

‘I’m sorry,’ I said to Singer because it was the only thing I could think to say. He looked at me expressionlessly.

‘Aye … a bad bastard was Singer’s Da. They hung the fucker at Duke Street and Singer was put into an orphanage. Then a kind of funny farm because of him not talking and that.’ Sneddon looked at Singer knowingly. ‘But you’re not mad, are you, Singer? Just bad … all the way through. I found out about him because Tam, one of my boys, did time with Singer. Shared a cell. Will I tell him what your speciality was, Singer?’