Chapter Six

Mechanisation hadn’t ruined the printing industry after all and any paid-up member of the Scottish Typographical Association should have been able to find work with one of the many publishing houses that flourished north of the Border.

Drink, however, had rendered master-printer Dougie Giffard unemployable. Now and then he would be taken on for a spell by a jobbing printer to whom cost-cutting was second nature and who hoped to coax from the bleary-eyed craftsman a little of his expertise. Charity was not involved, a fact of which Giffard in his lucid moments was very well aware, but occasional short-term jobs earned him just enough to pay rent on a single-end in a tenement in Waldorf Street, buy booze and cigarettes and, when he remembered, a couple of eggs and a rasher of bacon to nourish his skinny frame.

He was still several years short of fifty but drink had reduced him to a wispy, grey-haired wreck without relative or friend in the world, give or take the odd publican.

Giffard had once been an upstanding citizen, sought by fine-press publishers for his ability to design and set their flagship productions. In the course of eight days in the winter of 1932, however, his wife and two half-grown sons had fallen victims to influenza. Back in 1918 he had lost his mother and sister to the same virulent disease but in those days he’d been too caught up in making money to grieve for long. Losing his wife and sons had pitched him into black despair, however. There was no redemption from that sad condition and soon he had little else to live for but his next mouthful of whisky.

The stink of the close in Waldorf Street made Tony catch his breath and Penny snatch her scarf up over her nose. Foul air hung against the light from the shattered windows of the landing and the girl was careful not to touch the walls or bannisters as she picked her way between broken glass and the river of filth that flowed from the ground-floor lavatory.

Dominic led the way. Tony followed behind Penny, his gaze fixed on her polished black half-boots and the brand-new leather attaché case that bumped against her calf. She’d refused to relinquish the case even for a moment, had sat in the rear seat of the Wolseley with her long arms wrapped around it as if it were a delicate child. He knew that the case contained the engravings from which Dominic’s team hoped to produce a million pounds in counterfeit English banknotes, even more if the product stood up to inspection and viable channels of distribution could be established and maintained. He was dazed by the scale of the operation, more scared than excited, but he was part of it now whether he liked it or not, and was relieved that Dominic still trusted him and that his affair with Polly had not been uncovered.

They climbed past a third-floor lavatory that had no door at all.

In the closet, knickers around her ankles, a small girl perched precariously on the overflowing bowl. She watched them pass without embarrassment.

‘Oh God!’ Penny murmured. ‘How can people live like this?’

‘Because they’ve no choice.’ Dominic’s voice sounded strange, screeching a little like chalk on slate in the dank tenement stairwell. ‘You may say that they do have a choice, Penny, but I can tell you that they do not. Have you nothing to match this in Vienna?’

‘Vienna?’ she said. ‘No, nothing like this in Vienna.’

‘Or Philadelphia?’ Tony asked.

Penny did not answer.

They lingered on the half landing to listen to the rat-like scutter of the child’s bare feet, heard a woman’s shout, savage as a battle-cry, a slap, a shriek and a door slam. In silence they climbed up to the fourth floor where Dominic knocked on one of the peeling doors.

The letter-box had no lid. Through the opening Tony could make out a patch of worn linoleum covered with old newspapers. He could smell gas and the stench of a burnt frying pan and other odours, the old, undying breath of stark and inescapable poverty that he’d almost forgotten existed since he’d stopped collecting protection money in the backland tenements of Gorbals and Govan.

‘Is that you?’ said a voice from behind the letter-box.

Trousers, stained and soiled. Dangling from a claw-like hand was a half-pint bottle of Old Highland Dew, the cheapest whisky on the market.

‘Yes, Douglas, it’s me,’ Dominic said. ‘I told you we’d be today.’

‘Have ye brung the stuff?’

‘I’ve brought the stuff, yes.’

‘Who’s that wi’ ye?’

‘Tony Lombard. And a friend, a lady. Are you decent, Douglas?’

‘Aye, ah’m decent.’

The door opened abruptly, releasing a rush of sodden air.

‘Come on, come in,’ said Dougie Giffard, ‘afore y’ catch your death.’

It had been a dozen years or more, Tony reckoned, since the kitchen had been properly scrubbed. The woodwork was layered with grease, the old-fashioned iron fireplace draped with vests, stockings and shirts as damp as the room itself. There was no fire in the grate, only a heap of cold cinders that spilled on to the newspapers on the floor. Curled on the cinder heap was a fat ash-grey cat. It opened one sleepy eye, surveyed them for a moment then leapt up and scurried under the bed in the alcove.

‘Frobisher,’ Dougie Giffard informed them. ‘I was settin’ a full eight-volume edition o’ Frobisher’s Travels for Mackenzie-Clark at the time I got her. She shouldn’t have a man’s name, I suppose, but the boys fair liked it. They ca’ed her “Frobe”. She slept on the foot o’ their bed. Not here, though. We was at a better place down near the Cross in them days.’ He knelt stiffly and scratched his nails on the carpet of newspapers. ‘Come on out, Frobe, say hullo t’ wur visitors.’

But the cat would have none of it and remained hidden under the bed.

Giffard lurched to his feet, and held up the bottle.

‘Fancy a wee snifter then?’ he offered.

‘No,’ Penny said. ‘Thank you.’

‘Ah’ve a cup somewhere.’

‘No. No, really.’

‘She your sweetheart, Mr Manone?’

‘I’m afraid not, Douglas. She’s the lady I told you about.’

‘Penny?’ Giffard said. ‘Aye, well, is that not most appropriate?’

Why had Dominic chosen to reveal his secrets to this grimy wee man, Tony wondered, and what role, if any, would he play in the deal that Dominic was putting together?

‘Nobody is going to drink with you, Douglas,’ Dominic said. ‘Put that damned bottle away. You can plaster yourself out of sight later if you wish but right now you’ve a piece of business to do for me and you’d better keep your head clear. How much have you had today?’

‘Half, just the half bottle.’

‘How much is that compared to a normal day?’

‘Half again,’ Giffard said. ‘I can stop any time I like, ye know.’

‘And the band played “Believe if it you like”,’ said Dominic.

Giffard wore flannel trousers and a collarless shirt adorned with egg yolk and cat’s fur. There was no evidence of food in the kitchen, though, save for a frying pan half-submerged in a sinkful of water under the window and a chipped soup bowl filled with a lumpy white substance that may have been haddock-in-milk. The position of the bowl on the floor indicated that Frobisher at least was well fed.

‘I can do it, Mr Manone. I’ve done it afore, remember.’

‘Things were different in those days,’ Dominic said.

‘I done it for your old man. We never got caught neither.’

‘I know,’ Dominic said gently. ‘Put the bottle away, Douglas.’

Tony watched the claw tighten on the whisky bottle, then Penny pushed the scarf from her mouth and held out her hand.

‘Give it to me, Mr Giffard. I will keep it safe for you.’

‘You’re a Jew, aren’t ye, lass?’ Giffard held out the bottle. ‘I done a Talmud once, y’ know. Set in Hebrew characters. Two rabbi leanin’ over me for weeks just t’ make sure it was right. By God, they were educated men. Fussy, though, so fussy I thought I’d never get done. Quarto page size on hand-made paper wi’ hand-cut capitals. Grand job when it was finished. The rabbis were fair pleased wi’ it.’

‘Are you a Jew, Mr Giffard?’ Penny said.

‘Not me.’

She placed the bottle on the table behind her.

‘How can you tell that I am Jewish?’

Giffard tapped his nose. ‘You might be a woman but you’ve the same clever look about ye that yon rabbis had. Okay, you’ve taken mah bottle an’ you’re carryin’ the case so sling it up here on the table an’ show me what you’ve brought.’

Penny glanced at Dominic.

He nodded.

She lifted the attaché case, braced it against the table’s edge, and opened it.

Tony looked to the window. The glass was so clouded that he could barely make out the adjacent tenements. No one could possibly see into the kitchen even if they were perched on the roof.

He stepped closer as Penny lifted out the plates.

She held the blocks, one in each hand, for Giffard to study.

The printer’s vagueness vanished. He put a hand on Penny’s sleeve.

‘Who done these?’ he said. ‘Nobody from round here, I’ll bet.’

‘They were engraved abroad,’ Dominic said. ‘That’s all you need to know.’

‘I’m not just standin’ here for the good o’ mah health,’ Giffard said. ‘If I’m expected t’ manage the printin’ then I’ll need t’ have a closer look at those.’

‘Give them to him, Penny,’ Dominic said.

Penny slid the blocks on to Giffard’s grubby palms.

Some residue of professional pride stirred in the man. The agitated trembling in his hands ceased as soon as he touched the plates. He carried them to the draining board by the sink under the window and put them down. He opened a cupboard beneath the sink and fished out an old cardboard box, opened it and dug out a rectangular reading glass. He rubbed the glass on the sleeve of his shirt, sighted against the light from the window, rubbed again.

It was so still in the kitchen that Tony could make out the clang of a shunting engine from the goods yard a half-mile away. He felt excitement tighten the muscles of his stomach as he watched Giffard go to work. All that had gone before, plus all the stuff he hadn’t been told about, hinged on the printer’s judgement. He had already guessed that Giffard was a forger who had done work of this kind for Carlo Manone. He wondered if it was Giffard’s efforts that had furnished Carlo with the stake he needed to buy his way into the American rackets.

Giffard examined the face plate minutely through the reading glass. His thoroughness was reassuring. Tony noticed that the cat had come out from hiding and was squatting among the ashes, watching too.

‘Bloody Britannia!’ Giffard let out a wheezy chuckle. ‘By God, whoever done this got bloody Britannia right. I’ll need a lot more magnification t’ be certain but so far it looks prime. I’ll have it up to twenty-fold enlargement t’ compare against the genuine article but it seems t’ be a model engravin’ so far.’ He turned. ‘No one man done this. It’s a team effort. What’s your connection wi’ the team, lass, an’ why did they trust you wi’ somethin’ so valuable?’

‘I am only the courier,’ Penny said.

‘Did you know it was a workshop job, Mr Manone?’ Giffard said. ‘There’s a deal o’ money invested in producin’ a plate of this quality. Will that kinda money be invested in the printin’ too?’

‘What do you mean, Douglas?’ Dominic asked.

‘An accurate engravin’s only the start,’ Giffard said. ‘The plates’ll have t’ be doctored for mass-production. Paper an’ ink must be dead right too.’

‘I haven’t seen the paper yet,’ Dominic admitted.

‘British notes’re printed on paper manufactured from Turkish flax,’ Giffard said. ‘But it’s used flax, rags in other words. It’s bleached an’ washed for paper-makin’ an’ that’s what gives such a funny tint to the finished product. It’s bloody hard to replicate, believe me.’

‘What else will we need to do?’

‘Add chemicals to the ink. In circulated notes oil from the ink seeps into the paper, so we’ll need a suitable chemical to release the oil to give the forged notes the right look of age. It can’t be done mechanically.’

He held the plate balanced on the tips of his fingers. His nails, Tony noticed, had been bitten to the quick and the fingers looked blunt and clumsy. Considerable dexterity would be required to alter the plates and hand-set the numbers. Numbering, he reckoned, would be a major problem if the print runs were going to be large enough to be profitable.

He said, ‘What will you do about the serial numbers?’

Giffard said, ‘Cut slots in the face plate an’ set the serial numbers in moveable type. Bulk runs’ll need several different sequences. We’ll need to cut a second slot for the Chief Cashier’s signature too, for it can be changed overnight. I take it, Mr Manone, this isn’t a tuppence-ha’penny exercise, like last time?’

‘No,’ Dominic said. ‘We intend to leak at least half a million notes into circulation over the next couple of years.’

‘Tall order,’ Giffard said. ‘Will you sell the notes through the black market or push them on the international exchanges?’

‘Both,’ Dominic said.

‘Then we’ll definitely need a perfect type face for the serial numbers.’

‘Do you know what that type face is and where it can be obtained?’

‘Aye, I think ah do,’ Giffard said. ‘If it can’t be got easily then I’ll cast it myself – if you’ll supply the equipment an’ a quiet place t’ work.’

‘How long will all this take?’ said Penny.

‘Longer than ten minutes,’ Giffard said.

‘Can we have marketable notes by Easter, do you think?’

‘Not a hope’s Hades, lass,’ Giffard said and with an apologetic little shrug, handed her back the plates.

*   *   *

The Wolseley, like the girl, had a mind of its own. Steering was heavy, the gear lever imprecise. Tony concentrated on maintaining a steady speed on the drive back to Breslin. Slumped in the broad rear seat, Dominic seemed half asleep. The girl, up front, knelt with her back to the windscreen, her arms on the seat back so that she could look directly at Dominic while she challenged him, bitching, Tony thought, like any wee Glasgow sweetie-wife with a grievance against the world.

‘You promised me you would be in production by Easter,’ she said.

‘I didn’t promise you anything of the sort,’ Dominic murmured.

‘Why do you want to employ that filthy little fellow? He will be drunk all of the time. I will not have him in my house.’

‘It isn’t your house,’ Dominic reminded her.

‘He will bring the cat with him.’

‘Well, he isn’t gonna leave the cat behind,’ Tony said.

‘That filthy man, that filthy cat.’

‘Don’t you ever listen?’ Dominic said. ‘Didn’t you hear what he told us?’

‘Is he the best you can find?’

‘He’s the best there is,’ Dominic said. ‘He made over a hundred grand for my father just after the war. A single fast production run off plates that weren’t up to scratch. If you want an expert forger, Giffard’s your man.’

‘It is the past, you are delving into the past.’

‘That’s probably true,’ said Dominic.

The light was fading fast now the sun had gone down. The distant hills had lost the pale rose glow that defined their contours. Trees and hedgerows were etched black against the skyline and the bungalows along the road to Breslin seemed more isolated in the wintry dusk.

Through the steering wheel Tony could feel the road come up at him in harsh gulps. The girl rocked beside him, knees digging into the leather. He heard the scratch of a match, smelled cigar smoke, saw the glow of Dominic’s cigar in the overhead mirror, Dominic’s lips and cheek illuminated.

‘You are the wrong person,’ the girl stated.

‘For what?’ said Dominic.

‘To manage this thing.’

‘Well, maybe I am,’ Dominic said. ‘On the other hand, who else are you going to get that will put up with you.’

‘Me?’

‘Grow up, kid,’ Tony said. ‘This is the best deal you’re gonna get on this side of the English Channel. Maybe you’re used to big wheels moving every time you shake your tail back in Vienna, but this is the deal Carlo Manone set up and this is the deal you’re stuck with.’

‘I am not living with that drunkard,’ the girl said. ‘I am not staying alone with him out there at Blackstone. There is no telling what he may do to me.’

Tony laughed. ‘I don’t know Dougie Giffard from Adam but I reckon he’s about as interested in you as you are in Father Christmas.’

‘You won’t be alone with Giffard,’ Dominic said.

‘You will be there?’

‘Of course I won’t be there,’ Dominic said. ‘Tony will.’

The wheel gulped up at him. He dug his elbows into his hips to hold the big car steady. It had already crossed his mind that he might be put in as supervisor, his stint as nursemaid extended. He thought regretfully of his quiet, comfortable apartment, of the routine he’d evolved across the river that had allowed stolen acts of lovemaking with Polly.

‘Permanently?’ Tony said.

‘Yes, I think it better if you move out there,’ Dominic said.

‘When?’

‘As soon as you can.’

‘Before Christmas?’ Tony said. ‘I promised my father I’d…’

‘Do what you have to, Tony,’ Dominic said. ‘But I want Giffard installed and the machines up and running as soon as possible.’

The girl turned her head and Tony knew that she was watching him, appeased by the irony of the situation. He should never have allowed her to draw him out of his shell. He felt a sudden surge of panic as he contemplated how uncomfortable it would be to live with one woman while he remained in love with another. He wanted to ask, ‘What about Polly?’ but horse sense told him that the question had no relevance now.

‘Tell me what Giffard needs,’ Dominic said, ‘and I’ll get it for you.’

‘And me?’ Penny said. ‘What about me?’

Dominic drew in a mouthful of smoke. ‘From now on you’ll do exactly as you’re told, Penny.’

‘And if I do not?’ Penny said.

‘Then you won’t get paid.’

‘It is not you who will pay me,’ the girl said.

‘Yes, it is,’ said Dominic. ‘From now on you depend on me for everything.’

‘How much will you give me?’ Penny said.

‘Your fair share,’ said Dominic.

‘How much is that?’

‘More than you deserve,’ said Dominic.

And to Tony’s surprise, the girl laughed.

*   *   *

As soon as the orchestra filed in from the hatch beneath the stage Rosie knew that her deafness would not ruin the evening.

It was her first time in a theatre. She was enchanted by the ornate décor, the steep plush seats, by the smell of perfume and fur coats and the whole dense, gilded atmosphere of the dress circle where, close to the front row, Kenny and she were seated. Breathless with excitement she watched the pit orchestra tune up. Saw the slither of a trombone slide, the tightening of violin strings, the tamping of the drummer as he adjusted the tension of his skins.

She clung tightly to Kenny’s hand and leaned against him.

‘Is this what they call tuning up?’ she asked.

‘Yes, but you’re not missing much. It sounds like a cats’ convention.’

‘What?’

He pulled back a little, faced her. ‘Cats’ con-ven-shun.’

‘Ah!’ Rosie said, enraptured. ‘Ah! I see.’

In hanging boxes to the sides of the stage gentlemen in dinner suits were pandering to ladies in full-length gowns. Children too, children in party frocks with bows in their hair.

Rosie watched the ushers close the exit doors and, curling her programme in her hand, stared at the flat cork-like board as it soared up to expose a shimmering crimson curtain. She felt a lift of expectation in the audience and, glancing round, saw that the people about her were settling down. Some had miniature binoculars trained upon the stage, others were scanning their programmes or fiddling with the wrappings of chocolate boxes, one or two were laughing as if the entertainment had already begun.

Kenny tugged her hand and nodded towards the stage.

Down in the orchestra pit the conductor raised his baton and looked up at the curtain. He was very tall and had a shock of grey hair that seemed silvery in the glow of the footlights.

She watched him tap the baton on the stand again, saw the drummer’s arms rise and fall, the cheeks of the trumpet players puff out, and deep, deep inside her head imagined that she could hear the muffled musical notes of the fanfare as the huge, soft-winged curtains parted and scenery and chorus were revealed.

‘Oh!’ she gasped. ‘Oh! Oh, Kenneth!’ and pressed herself back against the curve of the seat as light and colour and gaiety flooded out upon her and, like a whisper, she thought she could make out the heels of the dancers tapping on stage and the voice of the chorus raised in song.

Twelve rows behind Rosie and off to her left Inspector Winstock lowered his rented opera glasses, folded his arms, and muttered to the woman seated next to him, ‘Is that her, do you think, the deaf girl?’

‘Who else could it be?’ Fiona MacGregor said.

‘Is Kenny pretending to be her boyfriend?’

‘Actually, I don’t think he’s pretending, sir.’

‘Really?’ Winstock said. ‘I wonder what on earth he sees in her?’

And Fiona answered sourly, ‘God knows!’

*   *   *

Polly was in bed before Dominic returned home. She had more sense than to ask where he had been but she had consumed just enough gin to be vaguely amorous and wearing her new nightgown was conspicuously propped up on the pillows.

She’d purchased the nightgown from Daudet’s, the most expensive shop in Buchanan Street, together with a crochet brassiere and a pair of triangular knickers decorated with needle-run lace, had bought the garments not for the pleasure that wearing them would give her but for the pleasure they would give Tony. She had eaten dinner alone in the dining-room and as soon as the children were asleep had gone up to the master bedroom, locked the door and tried on her purchases in front of the full-length mirror. The light of the bedside lamp softened the angles of her body, made her feel frothy and diaphanous as if she might float into Tony’s arms just as she was. It was close to midnight before she heard the front door open and close, by which time she was weary of pointless self-indulgence and imaginings.

She scrambled into bed and lay back, listening to Dominic padding about downstairs. She felt faintly foolish playing the tart – but spiteful too, so spiteful she was even tempted to practise on Dominic some of the wicked tricks she had learned from Tony. She waited, eager and apprehensive, for her husband to come upstairs. He would look in on the children first, of course, to be sure they were asleep. She assumed that the servants were asleep too, though it hardly mattered if they were awake for she was never noisy with Dominic whose lovemaking was too measured and deliberate to make her cry out.

He entered the bedroom stealthily, shoes in one hand, and didn’t seem to notice her at first. He put the shoes under the polished wooden valet, seated himself on a chair, hitched up his trouser legs, unclipped his suspenders, peeled off his stockings and massaged his feet. Then he padded across the carpet to the wicker basket by the side of the wardrobe, opened it and dropped the stockings inside.

‘I thought you would be asleep by now,’ he said.

‘Well, I’m not,’ Polly said. ‘I’m here, wide awake.’

He unbuttoned his trousers and braces, drew his shirt and undervest over his head, put shirt and vest into the basket and the trousers into a mahogany trouser press. He smoothed the creases with the flat of his hand, screwed down the press’s butterfly nuts, then placed his watch, cuff-links and loose change in a bowl on the dressing-table. He stepped methodically out of his undershorts.

‘Where are my pyjamas?’

‘Under the pillow.’

‘What are they doing there?’

‘I don’t know,’ Polly said.

‘Why aren’t they in the usual place?’

‘They’re under the pillow, damn it.’

He padded round the foot of the bed and slid his hand under the pillow.

‘No, under my pillow,’ Polly said.

‘For God’s sake, Polly!’

She pushed herself forward, her breasts visible under the expensive night-gown. He reached behind her, groping beneath her pillow. She touched him, not tenderly.

‘Have you been drinking?’ he said. ‘You have. I can smell it.’

‘One gin,’ she said. ‘Well, one and half. Pink.’

He did not pull away. He kept one hand under the pillow, the other braced against the bed-head while she stroked him.

‘I’m not in the mood for this, Polly,’ he said. ‘Where are my pyjamas?’

‘You’ll have to find them, darling. I’ll give you a clue. They’re somewhere nice and warm.’

‘You’re drunk, aren’t you?’

‘Merry,’ she said. ‘Werry, werry merry.’

He was warm, his flesh warm, but he was not aroused.

He drew back a little, took her wrist between finger and thumb and in the same methodical manner in which he had screwed down the butterfly nuts broke her hold on him.

‘Aren’t you up to it?’ Polly said. ‘Won’t you even try?’

‘Not when you’re drunk.’

‘I’m not drunk.’

‘I say you are,’ Dominic told her.

‘I’m seconds, aren’t I? That’s it, I’m seconds.’

He seated himself on the bed.

‘Polly,’ he said, ‘you’ve really got to stop this.’

‘Stop what?’

‘Spoiling everything.’

‘Spoiling – I’m spoiling – what am I supposed to be spoiling?’

‘All right,’ he said. ‘I admit it isn’t entirely your fault. I’m busy, that’s all. There’s something in the pipeline that demands all my attention.’

‘What? What’s in the pipeline?’

‘Tony – I told you about Tony.’

‘You told me nothing of the kind.’

‘It’s important business, Polly, very important.’

‘Will it make us rich?’

‘Yes.’

‘I thought we were rich,’ Polly said.

He looked smooth and rather plump in the lamplight. Soft, she thought, too soft to be wholesome. The hair that downed his chest and thighs had a washed look, as if he had bathed recently. She felt again an anxious little rage of desire beating against the fact of his rejection.

He said, ‘Do you want me to make love to you?’

‘Yes.’

‘All right.’

He put out his hand and cupped her breast. He hadn’t noticed the night-gown, hadn’t even remarked on it. If it had been made of platinum laced with pure gold it would have made no difference. He had failed to realise that she had made herself pretty for his sake, that she needed love as well as lovemaking.

‘All right?’ Polly said, shrilly.

He rubbed his palm gently over her breast. ‘Sorry if I’ve been neglecting you. My fault, my fault entirely.’

He leaned forward to kiss her.

And down in the hallway at the foot of the stairs the telephone rang.

And rang.

*   *   *

‘Look, Dominic,’ Bernard said. ‘I know it’s late but I had to wait until Lizzie was asleep before I could get out of the house.’

‘Where are you?’

‘In a phone box at Anniesland Cross.’

‘Why don’t you call me from the office tomorrow morning?’

‘It’s something you may not want Allan Shakespeare to know about.’

Dominic drew the dressing-gown about his thighs and leaned against the panelled wall. He had switched on the lamp on the hall table but the rest of the ground floor was in darkness.

‘What is it, Bernard? What’s so urgent that it can’t wait until morning?’

‘Rosie – our Rosie – is being courted by a policeman.’

‘Good for her,’ said Dominic.

‘He took her to the pantomime.’

‘Did she enjoy it?’

‘Yes, but that isn’t the point.’

‘What is the point, Bernard?’

‘He’s been asking questions about us.’

‘If he’s falling for her then naturally he’ll want to know about her folks.’

‘Specifically, ‘Bernard said, ‘about you.’

Dominic heard Bernard fumble for change then the tinny rattle of coins falling into the box. ‘Still there?’

‘Yes, I’m still here,’ said Bernard.

‘This policeman, what is he? A beat copper, a flat-foot?’

‘He’s a detective sergeant.’

‘Really? From what division?’

‘St Andrew’s Street.’

‘He’s CID, is he?’

‘Yes.’

‘Did Rosie volunteer this information?’

‘No.’ Bernard paused long enough to suggest that he might be lying. ‘He’s been seeing her for weeks apparently but she was so elated when she got home from the theatre that she blurted it all out.’

‘Did he bring her home?’

‘No, he put her into a taxi.’

‘A taxi? On a sergeant’s pay?’ said Dominic.

‘That’s what I reckoned,’ Bernard said. ‘Official expenses, maybe?’

‘Possibly. Do you know what sort of questions he’s been asking her?’

‘Not in any great detail, no.’

‘But he does know who Rosie is? Who I am?’

‘Oh, yes,’ said Bernard.

‘Are you sure about that?’

‘Positive.’

‘Perhaps it’s just an unfortunate coincidence.’

‘I don’t think so,’ Bernard said.

‘Why couldn’t it be?’

‘Because of what’s going on at Blackstone Farm.’

Dominic hesitated. ‘What is going on at Blackstone Farm?’

‘Heck, I don’t know,’ said Bernard. ‘And I don’t want to know. But I do know you’ve got something cooking up there. You didn’t have me organise a crew of carpenters just to redecorate your lady-friend’s bedroom.’

‘She isn’t my lady-friend,’ Dominic said.

‘And I gather Tony Lombard’s billeted there more or less permanently.’

‘Tony is…’

‘I don’t want to know. I don’t want to know,’ Bernard repeated. ‘What you’re up to is your affair, Dominic. I just thought I’d pass on the information for what it’s worth.’ Another coin tumbled into the box. ‘I wouldn’t go saying anything to Polly, though, just in case it gets back to Rosie.’

‘Polly knows nothing about my affairs, nothing.’

‘Even so we’ll have to be extra careful at the Christmas get-together.’

‘You’re still on for Christmas, I take it?’ Dominic said.

‘If you think it’s wise,’ said Bernard.

‘It would be difficult to invent a credible reason for cancelling,’ said Dominic. ‘We always get together at this time of year.’

‘Yes,’ said Bernard. ‘And Lizzie’s really looking forward to it. Listen, I’ve got to go. I’m running out of change.’

‘Last question,’ Dominic said. ‘This detective, what’s his name?’

‘MacGregor. Kenneth MacGregor.’

‘Thanks, Bernard. You did the right thing in letting me know.’

‘What do you want me to do now?’

‘Nothing. I’ll handle it.’

‘Rosie won’t come to any harm, will she?’ Bernard said. ‘I don’t want Rosie hurt because of something I’ve said or done.’

‘Rosie won’t come to any harm,’ Dominic promised.

‘If she does…’ Bernard began, but his threat was lost in pips and clicks and the long drone of the line going dead.

*   *   *

She had a burning sensation just under her breastbone and the taste of gin in the back of her throat, all desire dissipated as she crouched in the darkness at the top of the stairs listening to Dominic talk on the telephone.

It wasn’t what she had done with Tony that terrified her but what would happen if Dominic discovered what she had done with Tony, how everything could be destroyed and Tony lost as a result of an incautious word or, as now, a single late-night telephone call.

As soon as she realised that the call was from her stepfather she assumed that Bernard had somehow found out about Tony and she and, outraged, had called Dominic. It took only a moment of eavesdropping, however, for her fears to be replaced by bewilderment.

When Dominic put down the receiver she stole swiftly back up to bed.

She thumped her head into the pillow, pulled the sheet up over her ears. Heard him come into the bedroom. Did not move. In the glow of the bedside lamp through the weave of the sheet, she saw his shadow pass and a split second later the light went out. He slid in beside her on a little billow of cold air. She waited tensely for his cold hand to cup her breast or slide between her thighs but heard him sigh, felt him turned on to his back and sink into the pillows, hands behind his head.

She swallowed, said, ‘Who was it?’

‘No one of any consequence.’

‘Was it Tony?’

‘No, it wasn’t Tony.’

As if she had lost all interest in the telephone call, she inched away from him.

‘Polly,’ Dominic said, ‘if you still want me to make love…’

‘No,’ she said, ‘No, darling. I think I’ll pass: all right?’

And Dominic said, ‘All right.’

*   *   *

Frost still stained the sheltered corners of the yard when the chippies arrived to bag the sawdust and remove the old timbers; three cheerful young men who had no inkling as to the purpose of the platform they had been sent to construct.

Penny made them coffee and meat-paste sandwiches and kept them chatting for half an hour. They readily swallowed her inventive little lies and thanked her profusely, almost obsequiously, before they clambered on to the truck and drove off back to the building site.

After the young men had gone the yard seemed oddly empty in the thin winter sunlight with nothing on the horizon but faint smudges of smoke. She went indoors, washed and dried the cups and plates. Then she put on the warm tweed jacket that Tony had bought for her, went back out to the stables and climbed the ladder to the platform that jutted out over the stalls.

She switched on the current that fed the light bulbs, played with the switches, flicking them on and off; then she began to dance, whirling and pirouetting and stamping her feet so that fine lines of sawdust welled up from the joints and a beige dust sifted into the shaft of sunlight in the doorway.

For lunch she would serve mutton chops and fresh vegetables, the best selection that Tony could find in Breslin’s greengrocer’s. She had also told him to reserve one of the turkeys that hung plucked and naked on hooks in the butcher’s window. She would roast it with a simple stuffing of bacon, breadcrumbs and sausage-meat for there were no chestnuts to be had in Breslin, none of the herbs that her mother had favoured, and certainly no cranberries.

Eventually she stopped prancing about, seated herself on the floor and slumped disconsolately against the wall.

She could not stop her mind whirling, filling up with thoughts of what she would be missing – the noisy cocktail parties, glittering balls and concerts, dinner tables set for forty or fifty guests. And snow, snow cloaking the brown spires and factory chimneys while the lights of luxury stores winked in the dusk and the harsh lines of the city were temporarily softened by the Christmas season.

Christmas at home: she longed to be there again, the toast, the talk of the town, boys stepping up to salute her, poor besotted boys so manly in their uniforms, so disciplined, passionate and intense. Mature, sagacious men too, in tuxedos and bow-ties, smoke from their cigarettes drifting across the dinner table, their fingertips brushing her bare shoulders as if to convince themselves that she was real and not some artificial image created by the light. All that choice, all those opportunities and, out of boredom and a weary sense of obligation, she had finally given herself to Edgar Harker, a blunt, broad-buttocked nobody.

When she heard the approach of the car she jumped to her feet, wiped away her tears and, putting on a false smile, hurried out into the yard.

She had hoped that it would be the big Wolseley: Dominic. She was already attracted to the sullen little Italian with his slumbering eyes and brusque manner. The fact that he was married mattered not a jot. He would not be the first married man whom she had twisted around her finger. She had asked Tony about ‘the wife’ but Tony had gone cold and had stubbornly refused to discuss her.

The Dolomite rumbled into the yard and came to a halt. Tony got out. She could not truthfully say that she was displeased to see him. He was like Dominic in some ways, though not so distinctly Italian. Eddie had told her about the bond between Carlo Manone and Papa Lombardi. Had also told her why Dominic had been left behind in Scotland to run the business that Carlo had established before the Great War began. She felt no genuine affinity with either Tony or Dominic for she dared not share her own wild and quarrelsome history with them just yet or tell them of the gigantic error that she had made in coming to Scotland at all.

Tony seemed unusually rattled.

He flung open the door of the Dolomite, snapped, ‘Okay, Dougie, hop to it.’

The printer emerged cautiously with the cat cradled in his arms. His head appeared over the roof of the motorcar and he stared at Penny as if he had never seen her before. The cat squirmed a little, dug her claws into the shoulder of the new overcoat and hung on for dear life, her green eyes narrow and unblinking.

‘Present for you,’ Tony said. ‘He’s all yours, Penny.’

‘Mine?’ she said. ‘I understood that you were to be his keeper.’

‘Nope. I’m your keeper. You’re his keeper.’

‘Nobody’s mah bloody keeper.’ Dougie lowered the tabby to the cobbles and watched her strut away towards the farmhouse. ‘Is this the place ah’m stayin’?’

‘Yeah,’ Tony said. ‘This is it, Doug. Shangri-La.’

‘Remote enough, ain’t it?’

‘Not a pub for miles, Dougie, if that’s what you mean.’

He was different, the printer; younger. Not only had Tony supplied him with a new wardrobe but he had also had a haircut and a shave and, Penny suspected, a bath. His hair was plastered down with Brylcreem, shaped to an elegant skull with a domed forehead and close set ears. He reminded her of a whippet her father had once owned and from which he had bred a line of aristocratic pups that had been sold for substantial sums – not, she told herself, that Giffard was worth much for, a shapely skull notwithstanding, he was still just a scruffy little mongrel.

‘New and much improved, don’t you reckon?’ Tony said. ‘It’s amazing what twenty minutes in a public bath-house can do for a guy.’

‘Did you accompany him into the bath-house?’

‘Unfortunately, yeah,’ Tony said. ‘I even had to scrub his back.’

Indifferent to their sarcasm, Dougie leaned on the car and observed the tabby sniff at the doorpost and then, still sniffing, slip into the kitchen.

‘Got any spare grub in there, lass?’ he asked.

‘Yes, I will make us lunch in due course,’ Penny told him.

‘Not if Frobe gets there afore you, you won’t,’ Dougie Giffard said and grinned as the girl rushed shrieking into the house.