Chapter Seventeen

Books were Rosie’s salvation. If she had not had books around her in the gloomy weeks following her quarrel with Kenny then she would have broken down completely and been no use to anyone. Her deafness became a boon for she could shut herself away just by focusing all her attention on title-pages and foolscap and neat lines of copperplate writing. She catalogued like mad, filling slip after slip with descriptions of the volumes that Gannon hauled from the storeroom, pasting the slips into quires for the printer, for what, Mr Robert hinted, might be the last general catalogue that Shelby’s would produce for a very long time.

Hard work and reading allowed Rosie little time to brood. At night in bed, however, she couldn’t help but think of her father, her mother and her aunt and the odd triangle of betrayal and deception they had created between them. She pitied Janet in particular, Janet going about her dreary round with nothing to console her but the dairy, the church and the preposterous belief that one day Frank Conway would come back to reclaim her – a belief that had turned out to be not so preposterous after all. She wondered if she was destined to wind up like her aunt, a lonely old spinster clinging to dreams of what might have been and waiting foolishly for ‘her man’ to return and make everything right again.

She resisted her mother’s attempts at reconciliation and refused to stand still long enough to listen to her explanations. Bernard was much more firm and now and then would grip her by the shoulders and force her to read his lips. In this way she learned that Kenny had been put in charge of the Special Protection Unit and would not be enlisting in the army, not immediately. A few days later Bernard collared her again and informed her that he thought he had found a solution to their problem.

‘What problem?’ Rosie shouted.

‘The problem concerning your father.’

‘Do you know where he is?’

‘No, not exactly but…’

‘Is he coming here to see me?’

‘No. No, no.’

‘Then there is no problem.’

‘Rosie…’

‘Leave me alone, Bernard, just leave me alone.’

Which, rather to her chagrin, he did.

*   *   *

‘There’s definitely something fishy goin’ on,’ Babs said. ‘I mean, for God’s sake, Polly, did you have to go tellin’ him we’d been to see Flint?’

‘I didn’t have to tell him,’ Polly said. ‘He already knew.’

‘Huh!’ Babs screwed up her face. ‘I’m disappointed in your Mr Flint, I must say. I thought he’d got more balls than that.’

‘Babs!’

‘All right then – bottle, if you prefer it.’

They were seated in a booth in the back of the Shamrock Café in one of the less salubrious streets in Ibrox. There was something comfortingly old-fashioned about the shabby parlour and the odours of coal-gas, coffee and ice-cream. It reminded the sisters of their girlhood when, out of Mammy’s reach, they could talk uninhibitedly about boys and boyfriends, sex and marriage.

Baby April, fast asleep, was strapped into a pushchair beside them. Sunlight, fresh air and a small ice-cream cornet with a squiggle of raspberry syrup had all but knocked her out. The sisters spoke quietly, heads together over the cups.

‘I never did understand your hubby,’ Babs said. ‘I mean, what does he think he’s doing handin’ you the business on a plate?’

‘I don’t know. I’m not sure.’

‘Is he gonna pull the rug out from under us?’

‘What?’ Polly was startled by the question. ‘I never thought of that.’

‘I wouldn’t put it past him,’ Babs said. ‘I mean, otherwise it’s weird, givin’ you what you always wanted just to prevent you takin’ it from him.’

‘It isn’t that at all.’ Polly shook her head. ‘Dominic is convinced that when war finally breaks out he’ll be picked up and sent away, not because he’s Italian but because the police will have special powers to lock up anyone they fancy without charge or trial.’

‘Really!’ Babs said. ‘I thought they only did that in Germany.’

‘Apparently not. Apparently in time of war…’

‘Yeah, yeah,’ said Babs. ‘I see what Dominic’s up to. Crafty, eh? Signs the lot over to you so you can keep the business tickin’ over until the war’s over and he can come back an’ pick up what’s left.’

‘If anything’s left,’ said Polly.

‘Hey, hey, what’s this I’m hearin’?’

‘There might be nothing but rubble and dead bodies.’

Polly’s statement dampened her sister’s enthusiasm for fully a half-minute then, with a smoky little sigh, she said, ‘Dennis is in uniform.’

‘Have you seen him?’

‘Nope. He’s in camp, tents an’ stuff, in Ayrshire. Sends me postcards.’

‘What about his wife?’

‘Gloria? She cracked up totally. She’s been round at our house screaming abuse at Jackie for encouraging Dennis to enlist.’

‘Jackie didn’t?’

‘No, ’course Jackie didn’t. He had to offer her money, a lotta bleedin’ money, to get her to calm down and shut up. She wants me round there to help her sew black-out curtains, for God’s sake, wants them lined with red velvet to match her new Axminster. I told her to go chase herself.’

‘If Dennis is gone for long do you think she’ll find another man?’

‘I bet she will,’ said Babs. ‘She’ll shake her tail at the first likely-lookin’ handyman who crosses her path. Listen, have you got charge of Dominic’s books?’

‘Not yet.’

‘When you do…’ Babs hesitated.

‘Come on,’ said Polly. ‘Out with it.’

‘What Jackie pays him…’

‘I see, you want the debt cancelled.’

‘It ain’t a debt,’ said Babs. ‘It’s – what the word, Poll?’

‘Usury,’ said Polly.

‘Well, there won’t be much to “usury” with,’ Babs said, ‘not after Jackie closes the yard in Govan.’

‘Is that what he intends to do?’

‘No choice,’ Babs said. ‘With Dennis gone Jackie’s stranded. Besides, car sales have fallen off since the war scare before Christmas. One more like that, or a war itself, an’ we’ll be in the poorhouse.’ She stared at her sister out of innocent baby-blue eyes. Blinked. ‘Won’t we?’

‘Of course you won’t,’ said Polly.

‘Will you cancel the payments then?’

‘I can’t do that until Dominic…’

‘I thought you were in charge now, in command?’

‘Don’t be ridiculous, Babs,’ said Polly. ‘Dominic’s still running things. This isn’t like the garage…’

‘Salon,’ said Babs.

‘… isn’t like the salon then, not in the slightest. Dominic’s profits come from dozens of different sources, as well as the warehouse. Even if the authorities don’t catch up with Dominic you can be sure they’ll grab the warehouse.’

‘What else does he own?’

‘Apart from the warehouse, he doesn’t own much,’ said Polly. ‘It’s all investments, what Mr Shadwell calls capital deployment. As far as I can make out eighty per cent of the holdings are perfectly legitimate.’

‘What holdings?’

‘Shares in various firms.’

‘Like what?’

Polly may have been in a confidential mood but she was not about to tell her sister about the Manones’ complex financial affairs. It had already crossed her mind that if the worse came to the worse and all the menfolk were taken away then she might employ Babs to help her run what remained of the business. Babs would never be a queen of the boardroom but she had drive and initiative and a deviousness that would prove useful in dealings with men like John Flint. The threat of war might evaporate, of course, Hitler might sign a pact with Chamberlain or a peace treaty with the French, but somehow she doubted it.

‘Can you, I mean, handle this sort of stuff on your own?’ Babs said.

‘Dominic seems to think I can.’

‘What about Tony?’

‘Tony? What about him?’

‘Won’t he be around to – you know, help out?’

‘I don’t need Tony Lombard’s help.’

‘Aw, I thought you did. I thought you an’ Tony were – chums.’

‘Chums?’ said Polly, contemptuously. ‘Some chum Tony would make.’

‘Okay,’ said Babs. ‘Sorry. I think I got the wrong end of the stick there.’

‘I think you did,’ said Polly.

The fact that her sister had guessed that she was more than friends with Tony Lombard worried her. She had reconciled herself to resisting Tony. Perhaps she had expected too much from him but it had excited her to have two men in her life and in her heart, two men who loved her.

Babs glanced down at her daughter in the pushchair. The child was so deeply asleep that her lids did not even flutter. There were no dreams in April’s head, no longings, no memories, no desires or demands. Perhaps that was the only true innocence, Polly thought, an absence of memory and desire.

‘What are we gonna do about Daddy?’ Babs said.

‘Dominic says he’ll take care of it.’

‘I didn’t like the look of him, did you?’

‘No.’

‘I don’t really wanna meet him again, do you?’

Polly paused before she answered. ‘No, but Rosie does.’

‘Rosie doesn’t know what he’s like.’

‘Dominic says he’s dangerous.’

‘Now that,’ said Babs, ‘I can believe.’

‘Do you feel anything for him?’

‘Nope. I just want the bugger to go away,’ said Babs.

‘Honest injun?’

‘Honest injun!’

‘Then,’ Polly tugged on her gloves, ‘I think we can safely leave it to Dominic.’

‘To do what?’ Babs said.

‘Get rid of him,’ said Polly.

*   *   *

‘Where the hell are you?’ Tony shouted. ‘I’ve been trying to get you for two days. I even phoned the house but all I got was that damned nursemaid.’

‘Well, you’ve got me now,’ said Dominic. ‘What is it you want?’

‘Peabody turned up at Blackstone yesterday.’

Dominic adjusted the receiver and swivelled his chair to give himself a better view of the river. He’d been working alone in the office since early morning and Miss Seavers, his secretary, had been fielding all his calls.

‘I see,’ Dominic said. ‘Did he come alone?’

‘Yeah. Oh, yeah!’ said Tony, scathingly. ‘He wants a cut.’

‘A percentage?’

‘No, straight whack.’

‘How much?’

‘Fifty a week.’

‘That’s reasonable,’ said Dominic.

‘Peabody isn’t part of the deal, Dom, even though he is family.’

‘How does he want it?’ Dominic said.

‘Clean cash in a plain brown envelope delivered to his desk every week.’

‘All right,’ said Dominic.

‘Don’t you even wanna talk to him?’

‘No. Pay him.’

‘What with?’ said Tony.

‘I’ll pay him,’ Dominic said. ‘Leave it to me.’

He could hear Tony Lombard let out his breath. He knew it wasn’t just Bernard’s demand that had riled Tony; it was the other thing, the marriage. He smiled into the bakelite mouthpiece.

He counted to three slowly, then said:

‘How soon will Dougie have us in full production?’

‘Soon,’ Tony answered. ‘Real soon – so he says.’

‘What does “real soon” mean, Tony?’

‘He’s talkin’ about the weekend.’

‘Good,’ Dominic said. ‘You will let me know, won’t you?’

‘Yeah, sure,’ said Tony. ‘If I can track you down.’

‘How’s Penny?’

‘Fine,’ Tony snapped and to Dominic’s infinite satisfaction, hung up.

*   *   *

The baby had been crying. She was red-faced and pouty and her nose needed a wipe but she had been subdued by her mother’s attentions and clung on to Babs and buried her face in her shoulder while Babs tried to work her charm on Miss Dawlish.

Miss Dawlish did not find children enchanting and ignored April completely. She wore a Harris tweed jacket over a starched shirt-blouse and her steel-grey hair was cut in pudding-bowl fashion. She was not unfeminine, though, and had large brown eyes and oddly delicate fingers. Babs watched her punch the keys of the comptometer and scan the slip that emerged from the counting machine. She punched in more figures, spiked an invoice, then looked up.

‘He isn’t here. He’s out.’

‘I can see that,’ Babs said. ‘Do you happen to know where he is?’

Miss Dawlish hesitated. She was loyal less to Jackie than to her job. She reminded Babs a little of Aunt Janet McKerlie and she felt a strange sort of pity for the spinster as she waited for Miss Dawlish to decide how much or how little she, Babs, needed to be told.

‘Govan.’

‘At the yard?’

‘Yes,’ Miss Dawlish said.

‘When will he be back?’

‘He’s closing the Govan place down, you know.’

Babs transferred April from one hip to the other and said, ‘I knew it was on the cards, yeah.’

Miss Dawlish smoothed a rumpled invoice, peered at it for a moment then said, ‘Is he planning on selling this place too?’

‘I don’t think so,’ Babs said.

‘I shouldn’t be saying this, but it isn’t the same since Mr Dennis left.’

‘How bad is it?’ Babs asked.

‘Bad.’

‘Jackie – Mr Hallop won’t give up the salon until he’s forced to.’

‘We haven’t sold a vehicle in three weeks.’

‘Parts?’ said Babs.

‘A few.’

‘Are we still paying the bills?’

‘Oh, yes. I make sure of that.’

‘And the cheques don’t bounce?’

‘I transferred funds from the reserve to the commercial account.’

‘Really!’ said Babs. ‘How much is left in the reserve?’

‘It isn’t for me to say.’

‘That means damned little, doesn’t it?’ said Babs.

‘Only Mr Hallop can give you that sort of information.’

‘Does Mr Hallop realise how bad things are,’ Babs said, ‘or does Mr Hallop have his head stuck in the bloody sand, as usual?’

‘I’ve told him until I’m blue in the face that something has to be done to rectify the short-fall,’ said Miss Dawlish. ‘He doesn’t seem to listen.’

Babs leaned closer, the baby hanging off her arm.

‘I’m listening, Miss Dawlish,’ she said slyly. ‘Tell me.’

*   *   *

For the past few days Polly had spent almost as much time closeted in Victor Shadwell’s tiny office in the Global Building in Kinning Park as she had done at home. Mr Shadwell was a dry old stick but an excellent tutor. He had guided her through the ledgers and portfolios carefully, had explained what each entry represented and what the terms signified. Polly was startled by the extent of Dominic’s holdings, though Mr Shadwell wouldn’t reveal where all the bank accounts were housed and deftly evaded questions about Dominic’s overall worth.

Late in the evening, over supper, she tried to discuss the day’s lessons with Dominic but he seemed less interested in what she’d learned than in larger issues, the German invasion of Czechoslovakia and the final victory of Nationalist forces in Spain among them.

The following morning Polly came downstairs and saw the children off to school before she went into the sunny back parlour to eat breakfast and linger, brooding and dreaming, over coffee and a cigarette.

She’d barely finished her bacon and eggs, however, when Leah rushed in, waving copies of the Glasgow Herald and the London Times. ‘They’re calling them up. They’re calling up the boys,’ Leah cried. ‘It’s all here in black and white, Mrs Manone. See for yourself. All the boys, all the boys goin’ off to die in the trenches.’

‘Calm yourself, Leah,’ Polly said.

She put down her knife, accepted the Herald and scanned the banner headline: Conscription Disclosures. She took the news in at a glance; young men, twenty and under, were subject to call-up for military training. War was closing in, no doubt about it. She felt no lurch of fear or panic, only a quickening of anticipation. Gloomy speculations, see-saw scares, unrealistic periods of relief were consolidating into inevitable conflict. Britain meant business after all. The government wasn’t going to knuckle under to lily-livered socialists who would do anything but fight, that at least was something to be thankful for.

Leah was crying. ‘I have brothers, Mistress Manone, two brothers an’ they’re going to die.’

‘Nonsense!’ Polly plucked up a napkin and thrust it at the stupid girl. ‘It will take months, maybe years for the government to start drafting young men into the services. It may not happen at all if Hitler backs down.’

‘We’re all going to die,’ Leah wailed. ‘We’re all going to be shot by the Germans or gassed or blown up.’

‘Stop it this instant,’ Polly ordered. ‘Take my tray downstairs and ask Mrs O’Shea to make you a cup of strong, sweet tea. Take your time drinking it. I don’t want to see you upstairs again until you’ve pulled yourself together.’

‘I’m – I’m so scared, Mrs Manone.’

‘Well, go and be scared downstairs, if you please.’

The day-maid, still sobbing, scuttled off to the kitchen to look for solace in the teapot and Polly, tossing the newspapers to the floor, returned to her breakfast. She had only just spread marmalade on a slice of toast, however, when the front doorbell rang and Polly, tutting in annoyance, got up to answer it.

She wasn’t dressed to receive visitors. In fact, she wasn’t dressed at all. Under her housecoat she wore only a pair of cotton knickers and a vest. Her hair was mussy and she had applied no make-up and, she felt, still smelled rather of bed.

Licking marmalade from her fingers, she opened the door an inch or two and peeped out. Tony was leaning against the doorpost, arms folded, a cigarette in his mouth. He looked haggard and in spite of his easy pose, strained.

She stepped outside.

‘Dominic isn’t here,’ she said, ‘He’s gone to the warehouse, I think.’

‘I know. I saw him leave. Saw the nursemaid take the kids off to school.’

‘What is it? What do you want with me?’

A sound in the hallway; she glanced over her shoulder and saw that Mrs O’Shea, not Leah, had come up from the kitchen to answer the bell.

Shrilly, Polly said, ‘I have it. You may leave it to me, thank you,’ and to her relief watched the cook disappear downstairs again.

‘Did she see me?’ Tony said.

‘I don’t know. Does it matter?’

‘I don’t want Dominic…’

‘I don’t have any secrets from Dominic now.’

‘For God’s sake, Polly!’ he said, thickly. ‘Don’t send me away.’

He looked down at her, spying on her breasts under the collar of the robe. His eyes were sad, like those of a dog. She felt sorry for him, sorry for herself, sorry for betraying Dominic.

In three or four months she would be the boss, however, and if Tony was still around he would be answerable to her. He would not be her advisor, like Mr Shadwell or Carfin Hughes, he would be her employee. She could not allow her feelings to undermine the trust that Dominic had placed in her: everything had already begun to change.

‘Let me in,’ he murmured. ‘Half an hour, twenty minutes, that’s all.’

‘I can’t,’ Polly said.

‘Look, I need to talk to you.’

‘There’s nothing to say, Tony.’

‘God, but you look lovely.’

‘You won’t butter me into bed, Tony, if that’s your intention.’

‘Tell them I’m looking for Dom,’ he said. ‘I am. I am looking for Dominic.’

She could not hold out against him.

She recalled the excitement of their first sexual encounter, how he had mastered her and taught her more about herself and the faltering state of her marriage than she had believed possible. And no guilt, no more guilt than Dominic had, no more guilt than Tony, no regrets at giving herself to him: no guilt until he told her that he loved her. She couldn’t cope with that, with the pain and responsibility of loving and being loved. She loved him still, though, would love him forever, perhaps, live with him in mind day after day, yearning for him even when the planes came and the bombs fell and the world was crashing about her ears.

‘All right,’ she said. ‘Come in. Come quickly.’

And, for the very last time, allowed him to enter her house.

*   *   *

Kenny was no more impressed by the Athena Hotel than Dominic. The difference was that the Highlander felt out of place there, not just because he was a copper. He’d been raised in a socialist household by a man to whom capitalists were the enemy and landowners, all landowners, were in league with the devil.

There had been nothing vociferous about Jock MacGregor’s left-wing politics. The only times Kenny ever heard his father rant aloud were out in the sheep field when scrapie, say, had claimed another breeding ewe or feed was running low. Then his old man, outwardly so stoical, would let rip and denounce in no uncertain terms the government agencies that had reduced an honest man to reaching for the begging bowl or sliding into debt for the sake of a few measly pence. On the subject of war, though, his father had been strangely reticent. War seemed very far from the doorstep of a tenant farmer on Islay, nothing much more than a diversion to keep Westminster politicians from applying themselves to the problems of feeding the hungry, housing the poor and bringing prosperity back to the land.

When he pushed through the circulating door of the Athena Hotel, however, Kenny MacGregor could not help but feel his hackles rise at the brilliance of the foyer and the sight of so many haughty lackeys ready and willing to dance attendance on the rich. He had just started towards the reception desk when a familiar voice called out, ‘Over here.’

Dominic Manone rose from the brown leather cushions of a steel-sprung sofa between two potted palm trees whose leaves were made of beaten copper on trunks of painted bronze. The foyer was all glass and mock marble, all sheen and shine, and for an instant Kenny wondered if it really was Manone who had signalled to him or some chimerical substitute whom he had never met before.

He looked different, did Manone, leaner somehow and lighter, lacking the sinister bonhomie of the host that, at Christmastide, had almost deceived Kenny into forgetting that the man was a crook.

They shook hands.

‘Sit down,’ Dominic said.

‘What, here?’

‘Why not?’

‘Bit public, isn’t it?’ said Kenny.

‘I’ve nothing to hide, have you?’

‘I thought…’

‘Ah, rushing to judgement again, are we?’ Dominic said. ‘Coffee?’

‘No, thanks.’

They seated themselves side by side. The intimacy embarrassed Kenny. He had the feeling that every eye was upon him, speculating on why he’d been granted audience with the great, the almighty Dominic Manone. Nonsense, of course, daft and stupid nonsense. Nobody at all was bothered, least of all Manone.

‘I assume,’ Dominic said, ‘you don’t have a man still posted here?’

‘No, not for weeks.’

‘How is Winstock, by the way? I heard he was terribly ill?’

‘He’s recovering slowly.’

‘He won’t be back, will he?’

‘I doubt it,’ Kenny said.

‘It must be very trying being a policeman,’ Dominic said.

‘It is.’

‘But quite rewarding at times, surely?’

‘It can be.’

‘What would you consider rewarding, Kenneth?

‘Putting you behind bars,’ said Kenny.

Dominic laughed. ‘Is that all you want, Sergeant MacGregor?’

‘What else is on offer?’ said Kenny.

‘Oh, thousands,’ Dominic said. ‘Thousands of pounds or, if you prefer it, regular emoluments that would allow you to live very comfortably indeed.’

‘For doing what?’ said Kenny. ‘Turning a blind eye?’

‘You wouldn’t be the first copper to do that,’ said Dominic. ‘With responsibility comes…’

‘Temptation,’ said Kenny. ‘Aye, I’ve heard that one before.’

‘However, I’ve no intention of offering you cash or any sort of financial inducement. I don’t want you to turn a blind eye. I want you to open both eyes very wide and take note of what’s staring you in the face.’

‘You?’

‘Me?’ said Dominic. ‘What use am I to you, Kenneth? It isn’t me you need to bang up.’ He spread his hands and at that moment seemed to be all Italian, not a dour and clever Scot. ‘I pose no threat to social order. I haven’t been a threat for a very long time, if truth be known. I’m just a young old has-been with a bit of a shady past. But,’ he spread his hands again, ‘I’m not a fool.’

‘I never thought you were,’ said Kenny.

‘I’m not going to beat about the bush, Kenneth. I can give you what you actually do want, signed and sealed and delivered, but it has to be done my way and I have to have certain guarantees before…’

‘Didn’t Bernard tell you? I don’t do deals.’

‘Bernard’s your man, not mine,’ Dominic said. ‘In fact, it was unfortunate that you got him involved at all.’

‘I didn’t get him involved. He got himself involved.’

‘Fifty pounds in a plain brown envelope,’ said Dominic, shaking his head. ‘A signal we’ve gone into production. After it’s delivered I assume Bernard will telephone you, you’ll rake together a squad, descend on the farm in force and arrest everybody in sight. Is that the strategy?’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘Sure you do. And in case you’re thinking that poor old Bernard’s playing two ends against the middle let me assure he’s not. Bernard Peabody would never, never sell out.’

‘He sold out to you, didn’t he?’

‘He married my wife’s mother,’ said Dominic. ‘I gave him a job.’

‘In a shifty agency.’

‘Not at all. Lyons and Lloyd’s is legitimate. The one and only “favour” Bernard ever did for me was arrange the lease of Blackstone Farm. There! Now you know. That’s where the machinery’s set up and where the printing will be done: Blackstone Farm, near Breslin.’

‘What to stop me going there and…’

‘Not a damned thing,’ Dominic interrupted. ‘You can raid the place tomorrow, tonight for that matter, but all you’ll get for your trouble is an alcoholic printer and a more-or-less innocent girl.’

‘And Tony Lombard.’

‘Tony,’ Dominic said, ‘is expendable.’

‘Are you saying I won’t get you?’

‘Not a hope in Hades,’ Dominic said. ‘Nor will you get Edgar Harker. Nor will you, or your cohorts in the Home Office, get the agents that are lying in wait down south. All you’ll have is a girl, an old man, and one expendable second generation Italian who won’t – let me repeat this – who won’t sing.’

‘I wouldn’t be too sure of that.’

‘Oh, but I am,’ said Dominic. ‘I’m absolutely sure of Tony Lombard’s unswerving devotion – if not to me, to my wife.’

‘Polly?’

‘The one and only Polly, Tony’s dear friend.’

‘Good God!’ Kenny said, sighing. ‘You knew about it all along?’

‘Now I suppose you’ll assume I’m only out for revenge. Not so. In your book, Kenneth, I may be a rat but I’m not so much of a rat that I’d sacrifice my wife and family, and my best friend, just for the sake of getting my own back.’

‘You’re cleaning house, aren’t you?’

‘Pretty much, pretty well,’ said Dominic.

‘What about Harker, what about Rosie’s father? How are you going to solve that nasty wee problem?’

‘I’m not,’ said Dominic. ‘You are.’

‘Am I? How?’

‘By being patient.’

‘What are you offering? The names of the agents?’

‘I don’t have the names of the agents. Harker doesn’t have them either. What Harker does have, however, is the name, number and location of a source account from which the agents’ payments will be drawn.’

‘These are Nazi agents, spies? Right?’

‘Of course,’ said Dominic.

‘So you’re not a Fascist sympathiser?’

‘No, I’m not,’ said Dominic. ‘Many of my friends and business partners are, or appear to be, but that’s only because the Italian brand of Fascism provided them with an illusion of unity. They’re not evil, not even misguided. Many of them don’t understand what Hitler’s all about, or that strutting little egoist, Mussolini, who fancies that conquering Abyssinia will turn him into Alexander the Great.’

‘Or Julius Caesar,’ said Kenny, nodding.

‘Or Julius Caesar,’ Dominic agreed. ‘I take it you’re still with me, Kenneth?’

‘Can you deliver Harker? Can you uncover the names of the agents?’

‘With your co-operation I can deliver Harker. Netting the individual agents is too much for either of us. Your Scotland Yard friends will have to carry out that part of the operation.’

‘Why are you doing this? What will you get out of it?’

‘I require two weeks grace, three at most.’

‘Grace?’

‘To print off the first consignment of counterfeit notes.’

‘I can’t possibly aid and abet a criminal act.’

‘Harker won’t come out of hiding until he has something to collect,’ Dominic said. ‘After sundry percentages have been deducted, he’ll have around a hundred thousand in hot cash to pass to John Flint before he deposits the proceeds into a private bank.’

‘At which point,’ said Kenny, ‘the individual agents will begin to perk up and take an interest?’

‘Yes,’ Dominic said. ‘Soon after Harker makes the first deposit some other person – I’ve no idea who – will move in and arrange payments to small personal accounts in other banks across the country. Might be five, or ten, or fifty for all any of us can tell at this stage. At that juncture, not before, your colleagues down south can move in and pick them off one by one.’

‘Including Harker?’

‘Yes, including Harker.’

‘So he won’t be our responsibility? He won’t appear in a Scottish court?’

‘He probably won’t appear in court at all,’ said Dominic. ‘Unless I’ve seriously misjudged the little weasel he’ll spill his guts in exchange for a passport and a ticket to Siam.’

‘Siam?’

‘Anywhere,’ said Dominic. ‘Anywhere that isn’t Europe or America. He’ll simply vanish, never to be heard of again. History repeating itself.’

‘What’s Janet McKerlie going to say about that?’

‘Janet McKerlie is the very least of our worries.’

‘Our worries?’ said Kenny. ‘I haven’t agreed to anything yet?’

‘Rosie, I take it, wants to meet her father face to face?’

‘I think so, yes.’

‘And Lizzie?’

‘I really can’t say.’

‘Small fry,’ said Dominic. ‘I really do hate to admit it, but we’re all just small fry. Very soon Lizzie and the sisters three will have a lot more to worry them than confronting a ghost from the past.’

‘Coping with a war, you mean?’

‘I’m afraid so,’ said Dominic.

Kenny sat back. He stared out over the foyer of the hotel and wondered how long it would be before the Athena’s bars and dining-rooms would be filled with men in uniform, the same class, the same autocratic faces as filled it now only in best blues or browns, emblems of rank standardised and properly displayed at last: wondered how long it might be until the mock-marble staircases and metallic palms lay ruined among the rubble in the wake of Luftwaffe bombing raids. He had a sudden clear vision of carnage and destruction, of choking dust and acrid smoke, of Glasgow lying buried, like Pompeii.

‘You want me to stay my hand for a couple of weeks, is that it?’ Kenny said.

‘Three at most.’

‘And then what?’ Kenny said.

‘I’ll let you know when Harker makes the collection,’ Dominic said, ‘and you can take it from there.’

‘What about Lombard and the others?’

‘They slip quietly away.’

‘No charges?’

‘No charges.’

‘And you?’

‘I’ll tell Polly that the deal between her father and me fell through and he’s gone back to the United States.’

‘That isn’t what I…’

‘Polly will take my word for it,’ Dominic went on. ‘She’ll impart the information to Lizzie and her sisters – and they’ll believe her.’

‘Point is,’ said Kenny, ‘do I believe you?’

‘That’s up to you.’

‘What’s the alternative?’

‘There is no alternative, not if you want to snare the agents.’

‘You still haven’t told me what’ll happen to you?’

‘That depends,’ Dominic said.

‘On what?’

‘On whether you trust me or not.’

‘Huh!’ Kenny exclaimed. ‘I don’t trust you, Mr Manone, not one inch.’

‘Which,’ said Dominic, ‘is just as it should be. Do I get my fortnight’s grace?’

Kenny sat motionless, hands between his knees. He wasn’t puzzled by the offer or bewildered by the complexity of Manone’s scheme. It was, in essence, really very simple. In exchange for a brief delay he would have the sort of material that the SPU had been set up to obtain and would be able to hand on to higher authorities a pretty-well foolproof plan for smoking out a nest of German agents. He would not be there at the death, at the kill, as it were, but he knew how the system worked and that what Dominic promised could be delivered, knew too that one way or another Rosie’s father would vanish, never to be seen again.

‘All right,’ he said. ‘I’ll do it. But if you let me down…’

‘I wouldn’t dream of letting you down,’ said Dominic and with an enigmatic smile, shook Kenny’s hand to set the seal on their arrangement.

*   *   *

Dougie had been printing since mid-morning. Everything was running sweetly, so sweetly that he had carried on until three o’clock before switching the machinery off to let it cool. The racket had had died away before Penny came galloping up the wooden stairs and called out, ‘There is a strange car coming along the track.’

‘Is Tony back yet?’

‘No,’ Penny said. ‘Where are all the finished sheets?’

‘On the table, dryin’ off.’

‘Roll them and hide them between the straws.’

‘An’ spoil them?’

‘It is a car I have not seen before, Dougie. It may be a policeman.’

‘Okay, okay. Stall him long as you can, lass.’

Penny turned and ran down the staircase and out into the yard.

Hastily Dougie removed the plates from the clamp and rolled up the finished sheets. He stuffed the rolls behind the straw then, still with the plates in hand, heard the urgent honking of a motorcar horn below in the yard. He thanked his stars that the girl had been alert or lucky enough to spot the intruder. Panting, he shoved the plates into the straw bales too just seconds before Harker appeared on the stairs.

Edgar Harker came thumping up the stairs and on to the floor of the gallery.

‘You’re the guy, ain’t you?’ Harker said. ‘Know who I am?’

‘Aye.’ Dougie swallowed his panic. ‘I’ve a feelin’ you’ve been sent to collect…’ Behind the man’s shoulder Penny signalled with a scowl and a shake of the head. Dougie hesitated, then concluded, ‘to collect somethin’ we haven’t got yet.’

Harker turned to Penny. ‘You wouldn’t be holdin’ out on me, sweetheart?’

‘No, Eddie, it has proved more difficult than we anticipated.’

‘Bloody impossible,’ Dougie said. ‘Och aye, I can get it up an’ runnin’ but I can’t keep it runnin’. It chews the paper t’ rags half the time.’

‘Show me,’ Harker said.

‘There is nothin’ to show,’ said Dougie. ‘We burn the spoilage.’

‘It is not safe to leave spoiled stuff lying about,’ Penny added.

Strutting like a rooster, Harker strolled around the machine, head back as if he could smell deception in the stink of ink and hot metal. He tapped the lid of the ink-box, one of the few parts that wasn’t warm, and said, ‘Where’s the stuff that ain’t been spoiled?’

‘There isn’t much,’ said Dougie.

‘How much?’

‘Thirty sheets.’

‘Where are they?’

‘Dominic took them,’ Penny said. ‘I thought he had taken them to show you.’

‘Well, he didn’t,’ Eddie Harker said. ‘I hope for everybody’s sake the son-of-a-gun ain’t tryin’ to double-cross me.’

‘He’s havin’ them scrutinised,’ said Dougie.

‘Scrutinised?’

‘To see if they will pass muster on the exchanges.’ Penny took up the lie. ‘He has close friends in the banking business.’

‘He never mentioned them to me, sweetheart.’

‘Dominic does not believe in giving away more than he has to.’

Harker grunted, lifted his head and grinned.

‘Has he given you anythin’ yet, darlin’?’ he said.

Penny flushed and at that instant Dougie realised that the girl was afraid of Harker, more intimidated by him than she had ever been by Tony. Why, he wondered, would a beautiful hard-headed, self-possessed young woman like Penny Weston allow herself to be cowed by a cocky wee runt like Harker.

‘Aw look, she’s blushin’,’ Harker said.

‘Leave the lassie alone,’ Dougie said.

‘I see you’ve found a pal here, sweetheart, a champion.’

‘Eddie, please Eddie, I…’

He caught Penny by the hand, pulled her to him, his forearm pressing against her breasts. To Dougie’s dismay, Penny did not resist.

‘Tell you the truth, darlin’,’ Harker said, ‘I didn’t come for the money. I trust Dominic. I really do. I trust him ’cause I know what his old man’ll do to him if he blows the deal.’ He spread a stubby hand across Penny’s stomach. ‘So, tell me, how long until I see my dough? How long, honey, how long?’

‘Two weeks,’ Penny hissed. ‘Three.’

‘Well that gives us plenty o’ time to play house,’ Edgar Harker said. ‘Where’s your boyfriend, where’s Lombard?’

‘Tony’s down in Breslin,’ said Dougie. ‘We expect him back any minute.’

‘Then tell him he’ll find us in bed,’ Harker said and, to Dougie’s disgust, steered Penny meekly downstairs and across the yard to the house.