The Chief didn’t need to be back in Glasgow before Monday morning but, in spite of that, he and I decided to go to the city a day early.
It was my idea. I wanted to return the steam launch to Skipper Simmons, and since Sunday promised to be a fine day for a trip on the water, it seemed sensible to take advantage of it.
We cast off after breakfast, just as the tide turned so the current was with us. We had a wonderful trip up the river, with lunch boxes, a bright late winter sun and a couple of forays ashore along the way.
The Chief didn’t know who owned the launch or how I had got hold of it. But as I turned out into the fast-flowing River Kelvin, he said, “Is there someone we’re planning to visit?”
I nodded.
My hope was that Simmons had risked returning to his little boatyard now that Moira and her gang were behind bars. Otherwise, I supposed, we’d just have to leave the launch moored to his landing stage.
We had scarcely berthed when the door to the workshop flew open and Simmons came running out.
“Sally Jones!” he shouted happily. “Don’t ask me how, but I felt certain you were the one who was looking after my old launch.”
We stayed with Skipper Simmons for the rest of that day and through to the following morning. By midnight I was feeling tired, so I lay down on a stack of old sails close to the stove. The Chief stayed up, chatting and smoking with Simmons at his rickety, little kitchen table.
The Chief wanted to learn everything that Simmons knew about my time with Moira and her gang. Simmons told him about our nocturnal smuggling trips down the river, about the raid on the Greek’s gambling club in Maryhill and about that dreadful return trip after the meeting at the Black Cart.
It was a joy to lie there, bedded down in the old sails, feeling the warmth from the stove and listening to their chat. After a while their voices became part of my dreams.
The following morning a thick blanket of cloud lay over Glasgow and chill winds from the north brought icy showers of rain and sleet. The Chief and I bade Skipper Simmons a heartfelt farewell and set out into the foul weather. We took a bus to Central Station and had breakfast in the station café. Then we walked along Oswald Street to Moira’s house.
We stood there on the pavement in silence for quite some time. The north gable of the house was filthy and smoke-blackened. The glass in every single window was shattered and tommy-gun bullets had torn great lumps of plaster off the front of the house. The display windows of the shop must also have been shattered by bullets, since they were now covered with heavy tarpaulins. A police constable stood on guard outside the gate leading to the backyard, presumably to prevent looters gaining entry.
The colour drained from the Chief’s face.
“Lord in Heaven,” he said quietly. “It looks as if there’s been a war fought here. Had you and Bernie managed to get out of the house before all this happened?”
I nodded.
“That was a lucky blessing,” the Chief said, shaking his head slowly. “A lucky blessing!”
I could only agree with him.
We continued our walk and went east along the river and past the customs buildings on Great Clyde Street. A short distance farther on we reached the small square that holds the Central Police Headquarters. I had to sit and wait on a bench in one of the corridors in the police station while the Chief went to talk to the police.
It took several hours and I was beginning to get nervous by the end of it. Surely the police weren’t intending to lock up the Chief in spite of what they’d promised?
I was worrying unnecessarily. The look on the Chief’s face when he came to pick me up was happy and satisfied.
“What I need now is a glass of beer!” he stated firmly.
Dusk was already falling when we went out. We wandered along the street keeping our eyes open for the first decent pub, but we hadn’t gone more than a couple of blocks from the police station when a large, white car pulled into the kerb in front of us. The car was a Plymouth.
I felt a sudden rush of fear. I grabbed the Chief’s arm tight to make him stop and turn back. We had to get away quickly.
But the Chief didn’t know what was about to happen. He’d never seen Tommy Tarantello’s car before, of course. And when Craig McCauley got out on the driver’s side, it was already too late for us to run.
McCauley looked at me with his nasty, twisted leer. In the light of the shop windows along the street, the scar on his face glistened a pale yellow.