Murder in the Merchant City E-Book

Angus McAllister

• Herausgeber: Polygon
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019

Seitenzahl: 342

Beschreibung

Annette Somerville, a young single mother, earns her living in a high-class Glasgow sauna parlour, scrupulously keeping her respectable home life separate from her professional activities. During a series of murders in the city, seemingly unconnected, Annette realises that all of the victims have been regular customers.What should Annette do?  No one else seems interested, and her boss makes it clear that going to the police will cost Annette her job. But Annette's new boyfriend, a former customer of the sauna, could be the murderer's next victim.Can Annette continue to keep her two lives separate, or are they destined to violently clash?

Leseprobe

Praise for Close Quarters:

‘[Walter Bain is] a classic creation . . . [It’s McAllister’s] experience of tenements, and his affection for them, despite all the drawbacks, that really animates Close Quarters. There will be few city-dwellers who don’t recognise some of their own lives here’

The Herald

‘The author re-imagines the Glasgow tenement lifestyle, fuelled by his own experiences of living in flats. There’s a touch of humour but there’s also an element of crime, the combination of which makes excellent reading’

The Scots Magazine

‘Close Quarters isn’t, oddly, really a crime novel, it’s far more a gentle satire about Glasgow and some of its denizens. The murder of Walter Bain is certainly central to the plot, but finding out who committed the crime turns out to be almost incidental to what follows, and to the considerable enjoyment this book gives the reader’

Undiscovered Scotland

‘A refreshing and well-written read’

That’s Books and Entertainment

‘Close Quarters has a cosy, farcical, stage-like quality that I really enjoyed . . . funny and poignant’

Mystery People

‘Some laugh-out-loud moments . . . a comedy wrapped around a whodunnit . . . will be enjoyed especially by anyone familiar with the West End’

The Westender Magazine

‘Tenement life gains a whole new perspective in Angus McAllister’s recently published murder mystery, and it’s a local novel that has particularly appealed to Glasgow’s bibliophiles . . . Full of witty observations about tenement life, this is a whodunnit with a decidedly Glaswegian twist’ Rachel Walker, Scottish Writers’ Centre, Books Set in Glasgow

A note on the author

Angus McAllister worked as a solicitor and university professor, and is now retired. For many years he wrote academic books and articles, as well as fiction. He is the author of The Krugg Syndrome, The Canongate Strangler, The Cyber Puppets and the bestselling Close Quarters, and he lives in Glasgow. See www.angusmcallister.co.uk for more information.

Murderin theMerchant City

Angus McAllister

First published in Great Britain in 2019 by Polygon, an imprint of Birlinn Ltd,

West Newington House,10 Newington Road,EdinburghEH9 1QS

www.polygonbooks.co.uk

1

Copyright © Angus McAllister, 2019

A short story entitled ‘The List’, which included material from this book, was published in the online version of The Strand Magazine in 2017.

The right of Angus McAllister to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

ISBN 978 1 84697 471 7eBook ISBN 978 1 78885 174 9

British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication DataA catalogue record for this book is available on request from the British Library.

Typeset by 3btype.com, Rosyth

Contents

1    A Night Vigil

2    Another Day

3    The Merchant City Health Centre

4    The Centre of the Universe

5    The Most Beautiful Girl in the World

6    Special Delivery

7    Life Goes On

8    A Work of Art

9    An Interesting Day

10  A Stranger in Town

11  Justine

12  Out to Lunch

13  How to Clean Up in the Sex Business

14  The Way Ahead

15  The Subplot Thickens . . .

16  . . . And Thickens

17  Citizen Kane

18  Consequences

19  A Quiet Night on the Western Front

20  Best of Three

21  The Talk of the Steam Room

22  Forebodings

23  Next on the List?

24  Hitting the Fan

25  Some Expert Views

26  Diversification

27  A Suspect?

28  Becoming Restless

29  A Return Visit

30  Another Return Visit

31  Room Service

32  Room 123

33  Helping with Inquiries

34  Claudia’s Vault

35  Sex and Violins

36  Four Jacks

37  Insufficient Evidence

38  Sufficient Evidence

39  The Moral of the Story?

40  Visiting Time

Acknowledgements

‘For the wages of sin is death’

—Romans 6: 23

Author’s note

The events in this book take place in and near Glasgow sometime in the 1990s.

1

A Night Vigil

It’s eight o’clock and I’ve been waiting over an hour. As I stand in the doorway, holding up my coat collar against the wind and spitting rain, I think how easy it would be to give up and go home. But justice demands otherwise, as do weeks of patience and careful preparation.

And the night is perfect. It’s dark and there’s no one around.

I check my tools again. One large claw hammer and one kitchen knife, freshly sharpened. Common household items, and innocent enough, as long as they remain in the house. Carried inside your coat on a dark winter evening, they acquire a more sinister significance.

A man walks past, the first for several minutes. He glances briefly across at me, but pays me little attention. I don’t recognise him, but note as much about him as I can, in case he is a new candidate for my list. Tall, mid-thirties maybe, wearing glasses. Colour of hair? Difficult to tell under this street lighting.

Then it becomes irrelevant as he carries on up the street, without slowing for a second.

I relax again, but only for a moment. The street is empty when he appears at last.

I ease back slightly within my doorway, then walk boldly forward, as if I’m coming out of the building. From the corner of my eye I can see him walking towards me and that the street behind him is still clear. Then I turn my back on him and walk quickly along the pavement, about fifteen yards ahead of him. The street in front of me is also empty. I know where he’s going because I know where his car is parked. I take a right turning and carry on walking, then slow down and stop, appearing uncertain, as if I’m suddenly unsure of my way. As planned, I’m opposite an empty piece of ground, a derelict site between two buildings. It’s separated from the pavement by a high wooden fence, part of which has been knocked flat.

He has almost caught up with me as I turn. ‘Excuse me.’

‘Yes?’ He looks slightly startled, but not at all alarmed. I don’t present a very threatening figure after all, hardly the stereotype of a mugger. I get a good look at him as he faces me. He’s not particularly tall, about the same height as me. About fifty, overweight and not too fit. All to the good. He has coarse, ill-proportioned features unappealingly arranged around a wide, flat nose; his receding grey hair is hidden by a hat and his poor complexion is less obvious in the bad light, but even under cover of night he is a very ugly man.

I ask him for directions to a nearby street and he gives me the information.

‘That’s great. Thanks very much.’

‘No problem.’

As soon as his back is turned, I bring out my hammer. Moving quickly, I simultaneously flick off his hat with my left hand and, with all my strength, bring down the hammer on the back of his head. As he stumbles and falls, I leap forward and batter him twice more. He hits the ground and lies still. He’s unconscious, maybe already dead, but I’ve got to make sure. I look quickly around. No one’s there. He hardly made a sound.

I grab him by the ankles and haul him, by stages, into the empty site. He’s very heavy, but in my triumph I seem to have extra strength. He doesn’t stir as his head bumps over the slats of the flattened fence, across the rubble and weeds. As soon as we’re well hidden from the road, I completely let go and unleash my fury. I stab him in the back, again and again, haul him round on his face and renew my attack. Bastard, bastard, bastard, bastard, bastard, bastard, bastard, bastard, bastard, bastard, bastard . . .

I hear footsteps in the street. I stop and hold my breath. A figure passes the gap in the fence and walks on.

When the footsteps have receded into the distance, I check that the street is empty and return to my car, parked only a few yards away. My planning has paid off. It’s just as well: though I knew there would be blood, it was much messier than I’d anticipated. The worst of it is on my coat, so I bring out a black bin bag from the boot and put my coat in it, as well as the hammer and knife. No knowing when I might need them for some household task. I put the bag back in the boot, lock it, and clean myself as best I can. Can’t leave stains in the car. I’ll have to check it carefully when I get home.

The street is still empty as I drive away.

It’s a long time since I’ve felt so pleased with myself, so content and full of peace. I know it won’t last, but it’s good just the same. With my new-found calmness, I realise that this business of street killing, though exhilarating, is far too dangerous. In time, my luck may run out.

Next time I’ll need to think of something more original.

2

Another Day

When her radio alarm switched on at seven a.m., Annette had the usual impulse to turn it off again and go back to sleep. But there would be little point. The alarm had been designed for people like her and the radio would switch on again after ten minutes. Instead she compromised by leaving it on and turning on her other side.

She eased herself gradually from the desire to sleep on, while half listening to a news bulletin, a pop song, the inane patter of the DJ. There was no need to get up for another twenty minutes. She had deliberately set the alarm early in order to give herself this space.

When she finally got out of bed, she checked on the children. Lisa was still asleep but Andrew was awake, fortunately showing no desire to get out of bed just yet. With any luck she would have time to get showered and dressed before they were under her feet.

An hour later, they were definitely under her feet, but she had almost completed the process of getting them washed, dressed, breakfasted and ready for school. By the time she was driving off, with the children safely locked in at the back, she felt as if she’d already done a day’s work. This was one respect in which she sometimes missed her former husband David. While they’d been together she hadn’t had to do all of the work in the morning, only most of it. This was probably the only thing about him that she ever missed.

Just before nine, she dropped the children outside the school. It wasn’t too far from her house and, with enough time, she could easily have walked them there. But they never seemed to have enough time. She kissed them both and pointed them in the right direction.

‘Are you coming for us today, Mummy?’ Lisa asked.

‘No,’ said Annette. ‘Linda’s picking you up.’

‘Why can’t you come for us?’

‘I told you before. I’m working.’

‘Looking after the sick people?’

‘That’s right. I’ll be home at six o’clock.’

‘She told you before,’ said Andrew. He took his young sister by the hand and pulled her towards the school gate. At least, Annette thought, he was beginning to assume some protective responsibility without having to be told. She sat watching until they had entered the school building together.

She drove back home and parked her car outside the house. On the way in, she stopped to have a look at the garden. The house was at the end of a terrace, giving her more ground than any of her neighbours. This had been David’s idea. From the limited choice the council had offered them, he had gone for the house with the biggest garden. He had been full of ideas about developing it: it was simultaneously to be a floral showpiece, a market garden supplying half of their food needs and a leisure area for them and the children. In the end, after his neglect had brought complaints from the neighbours and a warning from the council, it was Annette who had got to work with the lawnmower and shears. She had concentrated on preserving the more modest achievements of the former tenants; usually she just kept the grass cut and the hedge trimmed, and dabbled with the rest when she had time.

In some parts of the council estate it wouldn’t have mattered. But this was one of the better areas. Annette had good neighbours, ones who tended their gardens, didn’t make too much noise and kept their children under reasonable control. Drug taking and violence were mainly confined to other parts of the estate, those furthest away from the town centre. Several of her neighbours, like Annette, had even bought their house from the council.

She was still examining the front garden when she paid the penalty for lingering. Norah appeared from the house next door. Norah had more time on her hands than Annette: her children had grown up and left home, and her job as a shop assistant was only part-time.

‘Forget about it,’ said Norah. ‘It’ll be OK till the spring.’

‘No, it won’t. There’s so much of it, there’s always something needing done. I’m thinking about getting a garage. It would fill up half the side garden. I could even put my car in it.’

‘A garage? You’re really givin’ that man of yours a showin’ up.’

‘He can do that well enough on his own.’

Norah didn’t respond. She came from a generation that thought you should make more effort to preserve a marriage. When her husband went off to the pub on his own, she simply dropped in on Annette for company.

‘Are the weans safely delivered then?’

‘No, I just left them on the main road to play with the motors.’ Norah laughed. ‘Have you time for a cup of tea?’

‘I’d better not. I’m working today.’

‘Oh aye, you cannae keep your patients waitin’. No’ when you’re doin’ so well out of them. Buyin’ your own house, and now a garage as well.’

‘One of these days I’ll go back to the health service,’ said Annette, not having time for an argument. She brought the conversation to an end and got safely into the house.

She left again at ten fifteen. One advantage of shift work was being able to avoid the rush hour. Without too much delay, she made her way across Paisley and on to the motorway for Glasgow. The road was still busy, but at least the Kingston Bridge queue had dispersed. Soon she was parking her car in a side street only a short walk from her work.

She was sharing her shift with Miranda and Sylvia. By ten past eleven they had all assembled, dressed in their white medical coats, waiting for the day’s work to begin. Typically, Miranda was saying very little and Sylvia was making up for it.

‘I was lucky to get here in time. Charlie wouldnae let me go. Get me this, get me that. He’d had a hard night.’

‘Poor guy,’ said Annette in a sarcastic tone.

‘I’m no’ kiddin’. He was in a bad way. I didnae like to leave him.’

‘I’m sure he’ll be fine. As long as you left him enough money for opening time. Or was he in withdrawal from something different?’

‘I’ve nae idea what you’re talkin’ about. We were in the pub last night and he brought home a carry-out. I didnae want any, so he drank it all himself.’

‘That was good of him.’

‘He’s like a wee kid sometimes. I never know what to say to him.’

‘You only need two words,’ said Annette. ‘I’ll give you a clue. The second one’s “off”.’

‘Is that what you told your man?’

‘Something like that.’

‘Did it work?’

‘Eventually. With a couple of boots up the bum to help him on his way. If he’d left right away it might have seemed like decisive action.’

‘I’m no’ sure,’ said Sylvia. ‘What do you think, Miranda?’

Miranda had remained silent during the exchange, a faint smile on her face. A smile of superiority? Mockery? Annette found it difficult to tell. It might even be her way of trying to be friendly. You could never be sure what Miranda was thinking. ‘I don’t really know,’ she told Sylvia. ‘It’s up to you.’

Annette found it hard to like Miranda, and she knew the other girls felt the same. It was difficult not to be a little jealous of her supermodel looks, but there was more to it than that. She was always perfectly pleasant and friendly, but somehow remote. She never poured out the details of her private life like Sylvia and some of the others, though Annette didn’t do that either, preferring to keep her home life separate. But in Miranda’s case, Annette sensed that the barrier she put up wasn’t just for the benefit of her colleagues; she suspected that it stood between Miranda and the whole world.

As they waited for the first arrival, they drank coffee and Sylvia chain-smoked. She never seemed to relax; not at work anyway and, Annette guessed, not at home either.

The first two customers arrived and the day’s work began for Miranda and Annette.

Annette didn’t recognise the man, and was fairly sure that she hadn’t seen him before. He was young, quiet, and seemed a little nervous. He wasn’t particularly good-looking, but not all that repulsive either. She took him to the cabin, relieved him of his robe and got him to lie face down on the table. She massaged the back of his body with oil for some time, then asked him to turn over. She looked down on his naked front. ‘Was there something else you were wanting?’

The man hesitated for a moment. ‘Yes, I think so.’

Annette took off her white coat. Beneath it, she was wearing only her underwear: black stockings, held up by a pair of frilly garters, a low-cut bra and a flimsy pair of knickers. ‘Would you like to know what’s on the menu?’

The man made no immediate reply, but there was definite evidence of interest.

Annette’s day of attending to the sick people had begun.

3

The Merchant City Health Centre

‘. . . has been identified as fifty-one-year-old Richard McAlpine, a Glasgow solicitor. It is not known why he was in . . .’

The background noise in the pub temporarily swelled to a level that drowned out the sound of the TV.

Jack Morrison, who until then had been paying it little attention, glanced up at the face filling the screen. Not a very handsome man. A coarse, round face scarred by acne, a broad, flat nose, a few scraps of grey hair framing a bald pate. Hardly the usual image of a solicitor, more like a mugshot of one of his clients. Jack almost expected a side view to follow, revealing new dimensions of ugliness in the profile. Instead he saw a piece of waste ground, an empty site between two buildings, bordered by a high wooden fence, partially flattened.

The announcer’s voice became audible again: ‘. . . to have attacked his victim with extraordinary fury. The police believe that he was struck down in the street, with a hammer or some other blunt instrument, and then dragged into the waste ground, where he was repeatedly stabbed with a knife. Police doctors have identified more than forty stab wounds, most administered after death.’

A senior police officer appeared on the screen. ‘The killer must have been drenched in blood and it seems unlikely that he could have escaped notice. We are therefore appealing . . .’

Losing interest, Jack turned away. It was just another murder. If the victim had been a child or young woman, it might have attracted public interest for a day or two, exploited by the tabloid press to whip up some spurious moral debate. But the murder of a solicitor was liable to cause the public more satisfaction than outrage. Or so it seemed to Jack, who had recently paid the legal bill for his divorce.

Jack was not by nature a callous man, but at that moment he had something else on his mind.

He finished his whisky in a single gulp. Should he have another? That might be counter-productive. He looked at his watch. Quarter past two. Now that the working population had mostly finished their lunch break, the streets would be quieter; there would be less chance of him being recognised. The crowd in the pub had already thinned considerably.

If he hadn’t been working that evening, he could have gone after dark. That would have been much better.

Before entering the pub, he had wandered about the area for some time, looking in shop windows, examining all the leaflets in the ticket centre at the City Hall, generally going round in circles. It was time to make a move. He went to the toilet, then walked out of the pub. Then he turned into the next entrance, a few yards from the pub door. Luckily there wasn’t a security door and he didn’t have to hang about in the street waiting to be admitted.

The close was dark and smelled as if it had recently been used as a public toilet. Jack climbed winding stairs, past a dirty window overlooking an overgrown back court, to the floor above the pub. There was only one entrance on the landing. A broad storm door had been swung back and the sign on the glass-panelled inner door read: BLACKFRIARS PAWNBROKING COMPANY. Jack continued up the stairs to the top floor and another single entrance. This time the storm door was shut. It was clean and newly painted, in contrast to the seedy appearance of its surroundings. The attached sign read: MERCHANT CITY HEALTH CENTRE.

Before ringing the doorbell, he had another attack of doubt. What if it was a genuine health centre, an up-market private clinic? How would he explain himself? Then common sense returned. An up-market clinic in this building? Using an advert, packed with innuendo, like the one that had led him here? He pressed the bell.

There was a buzzing sound and the storm door unlocked. He pushed it open and found himself in a brightly decorated entrance hall, where a plump, middle-aged woman smiled at him from behind a desk. ‘Hi there.’

‘Hello,’ said Jack, taking a step forward.

‘Shut the door behind you, love.’

‘Oh, sorry.’ He pushed the door closed and went up to the desk, trying to think of something to say.

‘Sauna and massage?’

‘Yes, please.’

‘Have you been here before?’

‘No.’

‘What’s your first name?’

‘Ah . . .’ He tried to think of an alias, then gave up. ‘Jack.’

‘Right, Jack,’ said the woman. ‘Let’s get you sorted out.’

Through the open door of the lounge, the girls saw him coming, hesitantly making his way down the corridor towards the changing room, giving off waves of nervousness. He clutched his towel and wallet as if they were soft toys from which he could take some childish comfort.

‘I think we’ve got a virgin,’ said Annette. ‘Whose turn is it?’

‘Not mine,’ said Candy.

‘I should bloody well hope not. Otherwise the rest of us’ll never get a look in.’

Candy laughed. ‘I cannae help it if I’m irresistible.’

‘How about you, Claudia?’

Throughout the exchange, Claudia’s usual expression of boredom and contempt had never faltered. She shrugged. ‘Be my guest.’

‘On you go, Annette,’ said Candy. ‘Give him your nice-girl-nextdoor act. He’ll think he’s wi’ his childhood sweetheart.’

‘Fuck off!’

Annette kept her voice low. All the customer would see as she approached was her welcoming smile. As she left the lounge, she saw him open the door of a closet in his search for the changing room. She quickened her step. If he caught sight of Claudia’s gear, he might run away. ‘Hi,’ she said.

‘Hello.’

‘This your first visit?’

‘Yes.’

Annette suppressed her annoyance. That stupid cow at the door was supposed to show the new customers round, or call on one of the girls to do it. Not leave him floundering about, having to find his own way like a regular.

‘The changing room’s over here,’ she said, indicating the door. ‘I’m Annette, by the way. What’s your name?’

‘Jack.’

‘Right, Jack. You’ll find a robe in your locker. While we’re here, let me show you where you can find the sauna, steam room and showers. Take as long as you want there.’ She took him on a brief tour. ‘When you’ve had your shower, come through to the lounge and choose the girl you want.’

‘Thanks.’

‘No problem. See you later.’

She returned to the lounge. He wasn’t too bad, she thought. Early thirties, not going to fat, still had most of his hair. Quite good-looking, in a shy sort of way. Like most of the girls, she preferred to deal with regulars: you knew where you were with them and there were no nasty surprises. But this one seemed all right.

The customers were free to select any girl they wanted. However, a new one would often choose the girl who looked after him on his arrival, so they took it in turns to play hostess.

Back in the lounge, Claudia had lit another cigarette and Candy was playing the fruit machine.

‘You’ll spend all your money before you’ve earned it,’ said Annette.

Candy pressed a button and the wheels spun. ‘It’s due tae pay oot. I can feel it.’

‘Aye, and Christmas is coming.’ It was the beginning of February. ‘Mind you, Sylvia put enough into it yesterday.’

The mechanism stopped, followed by silence. Candy gave the machine a thump with her fist and returned to her seat. ‘Next time, definitely.’

‘Only one person makes money fae that thing,’ said Claudia.

‘Watch it,’ said Annette. ‘She’s probably got the place bugged.’

‘Probably,’ said Claudia. ‘But who gives a fuck?’

‘Is that no’ what we’re here for?’ said Candy.

‘No’ necessarily. I’m a specialist.’

Annette and Candy sat down, at opposite ends of the long leather sofa. The TV, turned down low, was showing an old film, and in the silence the dialogue became audible. It had been a slow day so far. Two customers for Candy, one for Annette, and none for Claudia. The hoped-for lunchtime rush hadn’t materialised. Maybe it would pick up later and there would be an influx of business men who had sneaked off work early.

They sat and waited. ‘I think your new guy’s got lost,’ said Candy. ‘We’d better send out a search party.’

‘I’m sure he’s OK.’

‘Maybe he only came to use the steam room.’

‘Not another one.’

There was one regular customer who showed up every week, spent a couple of hours in the steam room, and then went away. If he had figured out the real nature of the place, he gave no sign of it. When he first appeared, Candy had tried to broaden his horizons in her usual subtle way, wandering into the changing room half naked, showering in the next stall, sitting beside him in the steam room, her towel falling away in all the right places. But none of it had any effect. Either he wasn’t interested, or was especially slow on the uptake. Or maybe he was just too mean to go to a legitimate health club, where the entrance fee was probably higher.

The new customer reappeared, dressed in a towelling robe. Annette got up to meet him. ‘Have a seat, Jack. Would you like a drink? We’ve got coffee or orange juice.’

‘I don’t know if I’ll bother, thanks.’

Candy looked at him provocatively, licking her lips. ‘You want to try our orange juice. You don’t know what you’re missing.’ She patted the sofa beside her, inviting him to sit down.

‘All right then.’

Annette went over to the drinks table and poured a couple of inches of diluting orange into a plastic cup, topping it up with water. She gave it to the customer and resumed her seat. He sat between Candy and Annette, staring in front of him, sipping his drink, his legs pressed tightly together. Claudia was watching the TV and gave no sign of having noticed his arrival.

‘Let me introduce you,’ said Annette. ‘This is Candy and this is Claudia. And I’m Annette, as I said.’ Candy gave him a big smile; Claudia looked round briefly and nodded, before turning back to the TV screen. The customer nervously nodded back to each of them.

There was a silence. Candy lounged back on the sofa. The top buttons of her coat were undone, and the bottom flap had fallen back to reveal a length of thigh. Annette knew that Candy wasn’t deliberately muscling in. Coming on to customers was so instinctive that she probably didn’t realise she was doing it.

‘When you’re ready,’ Annette said, ‘just choose the girl you want.’

The man nodded stiffly, still staring in front of him. Then he finished his drink in a single gulp and turned to Candy. ‘Are you free?’

‘No, but my prices are reasonable. This way.’

Candy got up and left the room, and he followed her, avoiding the eye of the other girls. A man with a conscience, thought Annette, who feels sensitive about rejecting us. He would learn. The only thing she was sensitive about was going home with enough money to feed the kids, pay the mortgage, put petrol in the car.

‘Never mind,’ said Claudia. ‘Bob the Gobbler might show up.’

Annette laughed. ‘He’ll take Candy too.’

‘Probably. But I’ll no’ greet in my beer over it.’

This was about as talkative as Claudia ever got, and they settled down to wait for the elusive rush.

Annette couldn’t be annoyed at Candy. She hadn’t done it deliberately. She was too good-natured to dislike, and you always got a laugh when you were on with her. Now Miranda, on the other hand . . .

It was just her bad luck to share her shift with two favourites in a row, Miranda the previous day and now Candy. Candy had worked in the place for several years, and for most of that time had been the unchallenged top girl. She had worked three shifts a week – if she hadn’t overslept after a heavy night – and gone home with more money than the other girls had earned in twice that time. Now she was slightly older, had put on just a little weight, and was having to put in an extra shift to keep up her earnings. Then Miranda had arrived and pushed her into second place. Candy, in fact, had as much reason to resent Miranda as any of the others. But there wasn’t a resentful cell in Candy’s body. She just made sure that she was always on a different shift from Miranda.

Another customer appeared at the end of the corridor. He looked familiar and seemed to know his way around. Annette was fairly sure that he didn’t belong to Claudia’s select band of regulars. With any luck, she’d be able to collar him before Candy returned.

4

The Centre of the Universe

After all the time he’d spent working up his nerve, it had all been over very quickly. It was the first time he’d had sex since splitting up with Margaret, and he hadn’t been receiving much prior to that. Mainly, he discovered eventually, because he’d been sharing her with someone else. Since then he’d had a few dates, but nothing that had developed into a sufficiently close relationship. It had been too long.

And it was so easy. That girl Candy was the best-looking woman Jack had ever been with, and there she was on offer, just for the asking. As long as you had the money. A woman who normally wouldn’t have given you a second look was yours, just because you handed her a few pieces of printed paper.

That other girl – Annette – had been very nice too. Much less obvious than Candy, not at all the sort you’d expect to find in a place like that. He’d been about to choose her, and then had hesitated. She’d looked so prim and respectable in her white uniform that he’d wondered for a moment whether she might have worked there in some other capacity. He’d quickly realised that this couldn’t be true; however, after his period of abstinence, Candy’s blatant appeal had been difficult to resist.

He would certainly have chosen Annette in preference to that other one – Claudia. She really looked like a hard case. Quite sexy with it, but not to his taste. Also a little on the mature side.

All of this was still going through his mind when he arrived at his work just before six. The bar was still busy with the remains of the five o’clock rush, and he was kept occupied for a while. Then they hit the mid-evening dead spot, when most of the teatime drinkers had gone and the closing-time fixtures had mostly still to arrive. It was a Tuesday night and only two bar staff were on, Jack and young Les Wilson.

Jack gathered in glasses and wiped the tables while Les cleaned up behind the bar. When they had finished, the place was still quiet. Taking advantage of the owner’s absence, Les smoked a cigarette, then went on his break. Half an hour later, Jack succeeded him.

The Centurion, Jack’s place of work, was on Byres Road, at the heart of the city’s West End. Byres Road linked two residential areas: middle-class Kelvinside on the north-west, and working-class Partick on the south. It was also close to, or passed near, BBC Scotland, Glasgow University and the Western Infirmary. These elements alone created an interesting variety of people, which in turn drew in outsiders attracted by this cosmopolitan mix. In the West End, if you were only mildly eccentric you faded into the background.

Tennent’s Bar, where Jack went for his break, was at the area’s epicentre, exactly halfway down Byres Road. If you sat in Tennent’s long enough, so it was rumoured, you would eventually meet everyone in the world, plus the occasional extraterrestrial.

In the past, Jack had never quite believed this. He was shortly to change his mind.

Tennent’s was also quiet, even emptier than the Centurion. The few customers were spread thinly around its wide spaces; as well as being the most central bar in the area, it was also the largest. Jack stood at the counter, chatting to Morag the barmaid, making his single drink last as long as possible.

Five minutes before his break was due to end, three women came into the pub. At first Jack paid them little attention; they sat down somewhere behind him, and the one who came up to the bar to buy a round – an attractive girl in her twenties – was a stranger to him. It was only on leaving the pub that he happened to glance over at the group and recognised one of them. Someone who had been constantly in his thoughts for half the day.

It was Candy, from the Merchant City Health Centre.

Even in the West End, this was a ridiculous coincidence. She didn’t appear to have seen him, so he quickly went out the door and returned to work.

He hadn’t escaped so easily. Half an hour later the girls arrived in the Centurion. It seemed they were on a pub crawl. Candy came up to the bar to buy a round.

Both Jack and Les were serving. Jack carried on, hoping Les would be finished first. Candy was too impatient to wait for either of them. She seemed a little tipsy.

‘Hi, handsome!’

Jack was on his way to the till. As he was passing Les, the other barman said in his ear, ‘Don’t you bother. I think it’s me she wants.’

But Jack was now free and Les was still serving. He went over to Candy. How should he react? He didn’t want to snub her, but mutual recognition could be embarrassing for both of them. And he didn’t know her real name. Better to play safe, with something equally appropriate as a greeting to a friend or a barman’s welcome to a stranger. ‘Hi,’ he said, smiling.

He could have saved himself the worry. If anything was bothering Candy, it wasn’t the protocol. ‘Come on, darlin’, we’re dyin’ of thirst here.’ She spoke good-humouredly, treating him to a smile he remembered well.

‘I’m all yours. What can I get you?’

Candy was leaning across the bar towards him; above the low-cut top, her cleavage seemed aimed at his nose. Even with the image of the hidden part still fresh in his memory, it still grabbed his attention. ‘You tell me, honey,’ she said. ‘But right now, make it two Black Labels and a Jack Daniels.’

‘Two Black Labels and a Jack Daniels,’ he repeated. She blew him a kiss as he went for the order.

As he and Les stood together, facing the gantry, Les released a shuddering exhalation; it was intended to indicate, Jack supposed, the extremes of lust.

‘You sound like an elephant havin’ a shit.’

‘It shouldnae be allowed!’

‘Elephants need to shit, just like anyone else.’

Jack liked Les well enough; he would probably be a sound enough citizen when he grew up. He turned to serve Candy the drinks.

‘Thanks, darlin’. What’s your name?’

‘Jack.’

‘No, that’s the drink. A Jack Daniels. What’s your name?’

‘My name’s Jack.’

‘Is your second name Daniels?’

‘No.’

She gave a drunken giggle. ‘I’m gettin’ really confused.’ She opened her purse and offered him a twenty-pound note. It was possibly one of those he’d got from the cash machine and given her only a few hours before. Now it was going into the Centurion’s till on its way back to the bank. If banknotes could give an account of their circulation, some interesting journeys might be revealed. ‘Get a drink for yourself, Daniel.’

‘Thanks a lot.’

She continued the flirtation when he returned with her change. The bar was now getting busier, but Les found the time to tell Jack what he’d like to do to Candy. It made up in fervour what it lacked in originality.

From time to time, Jack glanced over at the table where the women were sitting. If Candy hadn’t been among them, he wouldn’t have paid them much attention. Three good-looking girls having a night out. Were they all on the game? Under normal circumstances, it would never have crossed his mind.

He still couldn’t figure out Candy’s behaviour. She had treated him with total ease, flirting with him, buying him a drink, but without a single sign of recognition. Was she playing an elaborate game?

Then he realised that the explanation was much simpler. She hadn’t recognised him. To her, he had been just another customer, one of many faces that had briefly passed her way that day. If he seemed at all familiar, she probably thought he was just a barman who had served her before.

Maybe he had. If he’d met her the day before, or the previous week, would she have been just another customer to him?

That wasn’t how Les saw it. ‘I think you’re ontae a good thing there,’ he said to Jack, as Candy waved goodbye on her way to the next pub. ‘Let us know if she’s too much for you. I might be able to give you a hand.’

If only you knew, thought Jack. But you won’t be able to afford it unless you give up the fags.

5

The Most Beautiful Girl in the World

On the following Monday, less than a week later, Jack went back to the Merchant City Health Centre. He hadn’t meant to return quite so soon. When withdrawing money at the cash machine he checked his balance, and the virtues of self control became even more apparent.

This time he was much less nervous; the premises, after all, were discreetly located in an area where he was unlikely to be recognised. The same woman was at the front desk, but didn’t appear to remember him. Jack managed not to feel slighted. He preferred to be anonymous.