The Long Glasgow Kiss

‘Ah,’ I smiled, and nodded appreciatively. ‘The Scottish legal system at work. A model of fairness and justice where every man is considered innocent until proven Catholic.’

I could picture the scene. Housebreakers, as burglars were called under Scottish law, tended not to use violence. I imagined a procession of the usual suspects having the crap beaten out of them at police headquarters. In the movies, police detectives were always reassuring people they questioned that it was ‘just routine’. I wondered if that was the line the City of Glasgow Police used: ‘We won’t keep you long … it’s just routine. A few more boots in the ribs then you’ll be able to pick your teeth off the floor and leave …’

‘Can I ask you a question?’ McNab interrupted my musings.

‘You’re in the business of asking questions, Superintendent,’ I said, without adding that usually the answers were beaten out of the mug being asked. ‘Go ahead.’

‘Why don’t you fuck off to Canada?’

‘Is that a question or the new slogan of the Canadian immigration bureau? It’s catchy, I’ll give you that.’

‘You’re quite the wag, aren’t you Lennox?’ He looked past me, or over me, out beyond the garden, as if he wasn’t fully focussed on our conversation. Then, suddenly, he locked his eyes with mine and leaned in. His face in mine, his hand on my chest, there was no question about his focus now. ‘Do you remember our last little chat in St. Andrew’s Square?’ McNab referred to the City of Glasgow Police HQ.

‘How could I forget? You, me and that charming lad from the Hebrides with the wet rag wrapped around his fist.’

‘If you don’t cut the wisecracks I could arrange a reunion … Keep your lip buttoned Lennox. Answer my question: why don’t you fuck off back to Canada?’

‘I like it here,’ I replied, ignoring the logical pickle of answering his question with my lip buttoned. ‘The Glasgow air agrees with me. If I were to leave, my pleurisy would probably clear up – and it’s taken me such a long time to perfect it.’ I sighed and gave a shrug. ‘I don’t know, maybe one day I might go back. When I’m ready.’

‘I’d give it some serious thought if I were you.’ He dropped the hand from my chest. It had been there so long I felt the warm, heavy ghost of it through my jacket and shirt. Point made and taken. Superintendent Willie McNab could put his hand on anyone in Glasgow, any time and for as long as he wanted. ‘There’s a lot of people I know who don’t like you, Lennox. People who still think you know more about the McGahern case than you let on.’

‘Then they’re wrong.’ I threw a hasty, fake smile over my discomfort at McNab once more digging up dead history. Very dead history. ‘I keep telling you, Superintendent, there’s a lot less to me than meets the eye. Can I go and talk to Lorna now?’

‘Just remember to keep your nose out of this business with MacFarlane.’ Lighting a Player’s, McNab took a long draw, then blew a jet of smoke out into the muggy Pollokshields night. ‘Or I’ll arrange a change of scenery for you myself. Am I clear?’

‘Crystal … If there’s one thing I can say about your veiled threats, Superintendent, it’s that they’re all threat and no veil.’

Maggie MacFarlane poured me a Scotch while I sat and consoled her stepdaughter. Lorna’s real mother had died ten years before and Jimmy ‘Small Change’ MacFarlane had remarried. Maggie, his second wife, couldn’t have been any more than ten years older than Lorna.

When some men achieve a certain age, provided they’ve also achieved an appropriate bank balance, they give up the family saloon for a flash sports car, all sleek lines and curves, and an exhilarating ride that makes them feel for a moment that they’re young again, even if they can’t quite cope with the horsepower. Second wives can be like that; Maggie MacFarlane was definitely like that, and at our initial meeting, the first time I called to pick up Lorna, Maggie had somehow given me the clear impression that if I ever wanted to take her for a quick spin, then that was just fine by her.

‘How are you holding up?’ I asked Maggie. Truth was she was holding up just fine. A little too fine.

‘I just can’t believe it,’ she said, handing me the Scotch and pouring herself one. ‘Poor Jimmy. Who would do such a thing?’

I took my Scotch and put my arm around Lorna and persuaded her to take a sip of the whisky. She was at that stage where the crying had stopped and she simply sat ashen and still. She coughed and screwed her eyes tight as she swallowed the Scotch. The fire in the whisky seemed to catch light in her expression and she glowered at Maggie.

‘I have a few ideas,’ said Lorna in a low, spiteful mutter. Happy families. I was upset for Lorna’s sake; but I glanced at my watch: it was past closing time. And it was fast getting past the time when my secret knock could get me into the Horsehead Bar.