Chapter Nine

Polly did not know why she became breathless when she heard the sergeant’s voice. She had no designs on him, none at all. Even if he hadn’t been Rosie’s boyfriend she wouldn’t have fancied him: Kenny MacGregor was emphatically not her type.

Leah held out the telephone.

‘It’s a man for you. He’s asking for you.’

Polly took the receiver and spoke into the mouthpiece.

‘Polly Manone.’

‘Sergeant MacGregor. Kenny.’

‘Ah, yes. Good of you to call.’

Leaning on the handle of the Hoover Leah eavesdropped with unabashed interest. Her hair, like Polly’s, was tucked into a dust-cap. Like Polly she wore a floral housecoat and an apron. The air in the hallway was defined by a fine haze of dust and the smell of Mansion polish mingled with the faint burnt-toast odour that the Hoover gave off when it was used for long periods. From the stairs that led to the kitchen came the sound of Mrs O’Shea banging pots and pans and singing away to herself, not some quaint Irish ditty but a chorus of ‘If I Had a Talking Picture of You’. Patricia had taken the children to school. She had been given a list of groceries to hand in to Lipton’s on her way home. She would dawdle in the shop, Polly reckoned, for a young man there had his eye on her and Patricia was well aware of it. There were worse things to be up to on a blustery Monday morning in January Polly reckoned, than flirting with a grocer’s assistant.

‘One moment, please,’ Polly said, mimicking an operator.

She held the phone away from her ear and frowned at Leah who, after ten or fifteen seconds, took the hint and with a sigh, unplugged the vacuum cleaner and wheeled it away, cord trailing, into the living-room.

‘Yes,’ Polly said into the telephone. ‘I’m here.’

‘I’m not disturbing you, I hope.’

‘Housework, that’s all.’

‘I won’t keep you then,’ said Kenny. ‘I was hoping we could meet somewhere, at your convenience.’

Polly was reminded of a rude music hall joke but it hadn’t struck her as funny first time she’d heard it and she did not wish to embarrass Sergeant MacGregor by repeating it now. He sounded distinctly Highland on the phone. She wondered where he was: CID headquarters in St Andrew’s Street most likely, with his boss breathing down his neck.

Unconsciously Polly rounded out her vowels and shaped her consonants properly as if she were speaking to Rosie.

‘Why would I want to meet with you, Sergeant?’

‘You – you gave me your card.’

‘I was only being polite.’

‘Oh!’ a pause. ‘Sorry.’

Polly glanced up and down the hallway.

The living-room door was closed and even if Leah did have her ear pressed to the woodwork she wouldn’t be able to hear anything. Down in the kitchen, Mrs O’Shea was still trilling away.

Polly’s heart beat a shade faster under the housecoat as the prospect of a long drab day of house-cleaning and grocery shopping slid away.

She said, ‘Where are you? Right now, I mean.’

‘In – in Glasgow.’

‘Are you taking Rosie to lunch?’

‘If I can find time.’

‘You don’t have a date with her then?’

‘Open, it’s open,’ said Kenny. ‘She understands.’

‘What? About us?’

‘No, she – no, there’s nothing to understand about us. Is there?’

‘I’m teasing,’ Polly said.

‘I see,’ said the sergeant.

‘As a matter of fact I would rather like to have a word with you,’ Polly said.

‘May I ask what about?’

‘Not Rosie,’ Polly said. ‘Something else.’

‘I see,’ Kenny MacGregor said again.

‘Perhaps you’d care to take me to lunch instead of my sister.’

A hesitation, a careful pause: ‘Yes, that would be very nice.’

‘Today. Twelve-thirty.’

‘Fine. Where?’

‘The Ramshorn in Ingram Street. Do you know it?’

‘I know where it is,’ Kenny said. ‘Is it maybe not a bit…’

‘Public?’ said Polly. ‘What harm if we’re seen together? You’re courting my sister so naturally I’m interested in getting to know you better. If you’re worried about my husband, he’s gone off down the coast.’

‘Twelve-thirty it is then, Mrs Manone.’

‘At The Ramshorn,’ said Polly.

*   *   *

If she had known that Dominic would bring the next consignment of machinery in person she would have spent more time on her appearance. Since Christmas she had become careless and had allowed herself to slip into a routine that left little or no time to fuss with her hair, paint her nails or apply make-up. Indeed, she barely managed to keep herself clean, for little Dougie Giffard had discovered the pleasures of the tub and would soak for hours in the bath in the bathroom adjacent to the laundry-room. He did not, thank God, sing, but his silences seemed more sinister than song and Tony was concerned that Dougie had found a means of buying drink and was tapping into a secret stash of whisky and would sink into a state of paralytic collapse before the printing equipment was fully installed.

Penny considered the accusation unfair. There were no signs that Dougie was back-sliding. He still enjoyed his daily ration of spirits but she’d noticed that the half bottle was no longer empty at the witching of noon when Tony or she unlocked the cupboard and brought out a replacement.

Tony remained agitated, however, and would beat upon the bathroom door and shout, ‘What the hell are you doing in there, old man?’ And Dougie’s gruff reply would drift out damply, ‘The crossword, man, the bloody crossword.’

Tony was agitated about everything these days, of course. He was also drinking more than Dougie now, not just the flavoured coffee that the girl brewed in her fancy Italian percolator. He would punctuate long hours of nurse-maiding, when he had nothing to do but watch the girl at work, with grumpy little trips to the whisky cupboard.

It wasn’t much of a life stuck out on a farm for a man who was used to a different sort of idleness, Dougie supposed. Personally he loved it here, and Frobe was in his element. Even the girl seemed content, especially after the equipment began to arrive and he took her under his wing and showed her how to do things with it while he adapted the rotary type multigraph that Dominic had found for him and which he intended to link to a flat-bed press.

He had no idea where Dominic had raked up the machinery but he had seldom worked with such fine equipment. Big lenses, shaded spotlights, even a reflector camera with which to enlarge the plates for detailed scrutiny. He crammed the camera on to a table in his bedroom and had Tony rig up lights from a power box on the ground floor, for the attic was warmer than the stable and he needed to be comfortable to concentrate while he worked on perfecting the signature of the Bank of England’s current Cashier, Kenneth Oswald Peppiat.

Kenneth Oswald Peppiat was driving him crazy, though. The K bore more than a passing resemblance to an H and the nib the chap had used for the original copy-plate had reduced the final T-cross to a fat left-to-right slash. In addition Mr Peppiat had popped in two full stops slightly, just slightly, out of alignment. Practice and enlargement, copying and checking would do the trick, however, and before long he would be ready to engrave a separate block for the signature.

Dominic had picked up a tray of type which would exactly duplicate the serial numbers and all Dougie required now was a routing machine and he’d be ready to undertake the delicate process of cutting into and building up the block.

‘When?’ the girl would ask. ‘When, Dougie, when?’

‘When I can, lass,’ he would tell her. ‘It’s somethin’ I can’t rush.’

‘Are not the plates good enough?’

‘Aye, the plates are grand,’ Dougie would say, ‘but I’ve only got one pair o’ hands, in case ye hadn’t noticed.’

Penny was more patient than Dougie gave her credit for.

She ran the household with ease and efficiency, cooking and cleaning and attending to the laundry-bags in a manner that would have made her mother proud. Blackstone had already begun to feel like home. Only the oddity of the sleeping arrangements, and Tony Lombard’s hostility, prevented her being happier than she’d been in many months. She pressed Dougie for answers not because she wanted this phase to end but because she knew that war was imminent and she must get out of the country before it did or risk being stuck here until the Panzer army came growling over the hill and Scotland became just another outpost of the Reich.

The Wolseley drew up in the yard, and Dominic got out.

For once he was less than immaculate. He wore a bulky woollen sweater, a pair of corduroys and a knitted cap that made him look like a stevedore.

There was no one else in the motorcar but a wooden crate was propped in the rear seat and, in the luggage trunk, three large flat parcels.

‘Where is Giffard?’ Dominic asked.

‘Upstairs.’

‘Is he sober?’

‘He is never not sober,’ Penny answered. ‘He is working, I think.’

She ran her hands down her flanks, smoothing her rumpled skirt.

The day was blustery, the wind veering from the north, chilly rather than cold. She watched the breeze flirt with Dominic’s dark hair. He was clearly in no mood to be teased today, however, and she put on her serious face.

‘Tony?’

‘I think he is in the toilet. I will fetch him if you wish.’

‘No.’ Dominic placed himself in front of her, so close that she could see perspiration on his upper lip, a strange dry sort of sweat. ‘You lied to me, Penny. I want to know why you lied to me.’

‘I did not lie to you,’ she said. ‘I do not tell lies.’

‘Ballocks!’ he said.

She was not offended by the dirty word, only by the manner of its utterance. She had never seen him like this before, his veneer of cool courtesy rubbed away, anger and aggression showing through. He seemed now like what he was, perhaps, not a well-educated Scottish businessman but the son of a violent Italian peasant. She was shocked and thrilled at one and the same time and wondered fleetingly if he had a gun on his person or a revolver hidden in the car and if it came to it – if he ever discovered just how many lies she had told him – he would have the nerve to use it. She arched her back, spread her hands, spoke loudly:

‘What lies have I told you? What is it that I have said?’

‘You told me the paper was coming in from Verona.’

‘And is it not?’

‘You told me my uncle Guido was handling that end of it.’

‘So?’ she said.

‘My uncle Guide is dead.’ He dug into the hip pocket of the corduroy trousers and brought out a cablegram, the yellow-tinted form crushed and crumpled. He snapped it between his fingers and waved it at her. ‘He’s been dead for over a week. And he wasn’t in Verona. He was nowhere near Verona. He died in a hospital in Genoa.’

‘Perhaps he was taken suddenly,’ Penny said.

‘He’d been in the hospital for months, for all I know,’ Dominic said. ‘Guido was never part of this deal, was he?’

‘I did not tell you that he was. Edgar said that…’

‘Sod Edgar!’ Dominic said. ‘I’m not interested in Harker. I want you to tell me what’s going on and where the first delivery of paper really came from.’

‘I do not know.’

‘It arrived by carrier from Hull. Hired carrier from the docks at Hull. Dumped on my damned doorstep like the morning milk,’ Dominic said. ‘How many other guys are working on this deal and, more to the point, who’s paying them?’

‘I do not know. Honestly. I will cross my heart if I am telling…’

‘Who sent you to me?’

‘Your father.’

‘Liar!’

‘Where did the cable come from?’ Penny asked.

‘What?’

‘Who was it who sent you news of your uncle?’

The question stopped him in his tracks.

She knew perfectly well that the old man in Italy had not been involved. She could not imagine why Eddie Harker had told her to support that particular lie. God knows, there were lies enough in the air, lies and deceptions stretching endlessly to the horizon, without adding one more. She could see no reason for it, not now, not in hindsight. But then much of what was done seemed to be based on reasoning so twisted that it was not just stupid but perverse.

‘Who?’ she insisted. ‘Was it your aunt?’

‘Teresa? No, she – I don’t know where she is, or what will become of her.’

‘Carlo will take care of her,’ Penny said. ‘Perhaps he will bring her to America, out of Italy.’

‘If he can,’ Dominic said.

‘Tell me,’ she spoke quietly, not backing away. ‘Who sent you the cable?’

‘Pappy,’ Dominic said. ‘My father.’

‘Then it was he who lied to you, lied to Edgar – and to me.’

‘Don’t try to put the blame—’

She placed a forefinger on his chest and brought her mouth close to his, close enough to kiss. ‘There is no blame,’ she said. ‘Do we not have the paper?’

‘Yes.’

‘Is it the right paper? Is it good paper for our purposes?’

‘I don’t know. Giffard will have to take a look at it.’

‘If it is good paper, the right paper,’ Penny said, ‘does it matter that it does not come from your uncle in Verona?’

‘I suppose not,’ Dominic said. ‘I just don’t like being lied to.’

She spread her hand, laid it very lightly against his chest. ‘I am sorry that your uncle is dead. Truly.’

‘Thank you.’

‘He was like a father to you, no?’

‘He looked after me, he and Aunt Teresa,’ Dominic said.

‘Cared for you?’

‘Probably.’

‘I am sorry you have lost someone who was dear to you. I am sincere.’

‘Yes,’ Dominic said, softening. ‘I know you are.’

She was tempted to kiss him, to taste the perspiration that anger had brought out on his lips. She resisted, though, did not play on her advantage.

Dominic said, ‘I still want to know where the damned paper came from.’

‘There are docks in Hull, no?’

‘Of course there are docks in Hull. But where did the package come from, where did it originate?’ Dominic said. ‘There were no packing notes, no customs stamps, nothing to give me a clue. Obviously this is only the first batch and there will be more on the way if we approve this stuff. So where’s it coming from, that’s what I want to know, Penny?’

‘Perhaps Eddie sent it.’

‘And where did Eddie get it from?’

Penny shook her head.

Dominic said, ‘Italy? Maybe even Germany?’

‘Why do you worry so much where it comes from?’

‘Because I don’t want to be caught trading with Germany,’ Dominic said. ‘God knows, I’m having trouble enough keeping my warehouse stocked with goods from Italy right now, legitimate goods. My manufacturers are being squeezed by government regulations and import restrictions.’

‘It is not against the law to import from Italy,’ Penny said.

‘No, not officially,’ Dominic said. ‘But I already have the coppers breathing down my neck.’

‘What is it you say?’

‘Nothing, nothing,’ Dominic said. ‘I’d just like to be sure that your friend Harker has the route covered.’

‘Perhaps,’ Penny said, ‘it’s all here already, stored in a warehouse in Hull.’

‘Is that what Harker told you?’

‘I haven’t seen Eddie in weeks. I do not even know where he is.’

‘Well, this damned paper didn’t come from Woolworth’s,’ Dominic said. ‘It was manufactured especially for us and I’d like to find out where.’

‘Maybe it is not the right paper,’ Penny suggested.

‘Well,’ Dominic said, just as Tony emerged from the farmhouse, ‘there’s only one sure way to find out. We’ll lug the packages into the stables and have Giffard examine the contents sheet by sheet. Go get the little beggar, please, Penny. We’ll need his help to lift that box out of the back seat.’

‘Which is,’ said Tony, ‘what exactly?’

‘Giffard’s routing machine.’

‘Yeah, he will be pleased,’ said Tony.

Dominic opened the passenger door and reached into the car. He backed out again, three square cardboard boxes suspended from each hand by thick cord slings. ‘And these,’ he said. ‘I brought these for you.’

‘What are they?’ Tony said.

‘Gas-masks.’

‘Gas-masks!’ Penny exclaimed.

‘You’re supposed to report to a local centre to be fitted but I brought six so you can find one that more or less fits you. Giffard too.’

‘How did you get six of them?’ said Penny.

‘He bought them from people who don’t believe there’s going to be a war,’ Tony said. ‘Right, Dominic?’

‘Quite right,’ Dominic answered and leaving Penny by the car took Tony by the arm and led him off a little way to break the bad news about Guido.

*   *   *

The Ramshorn had quite a history to it, a history that seemed to adhere to the wood-panelled walls and to hang in the air like ectoplasm. To Polly though history smelled of grilled chops, strong ale and tobacco smoke, for the restaurant in Ingram Street had been, and still was, a haunt of city traders.

It was crowded, loud and bustling. Kenny and she were lucky to find a table away from the door, tucked under the beams at the rear of the long, low ground-floor room. She doubted if any of Dominic’s cronies would be here but if they were, if they recognised her and snitched to her husband then she would tell him the truth, or the most obvious and undeniable part of it, that she had asked Kenny MacGregor to lunch simply to discover more about him. It was, after all, the least a sister could do.

The sergeant was more at ease than she had expected him to be. In the first quarter hour of casual conversation she even detected a faint trace of condescension towards her, not patronage so much as dislike, as if he had already sized her up and, in comparison to her little sister, had found her wanting.

Imagination! Polly told herself: he’s merely being guarded because he doesn’t know what I want from him and what he might receive in return.

She hadn’t forgotten how Kenny had knocked her husband off balance at Christmas, and Dominic was a more astute and experienced negotiator than she would ever be. She found herself putting on an air of almost girlish eagerness, as if to convince the sergeant that Rosie and she were not so very different after all.

‘Rosie tells me your father was killed in the war.’

‘He walked out on us in nineteen-seventeen and vanished into thin air,’ Polly said.

‘And you assume he died in the trenches?’

‘That’s what we’ve always been led to believe.’

‘By whom?’ said Kenny.

‘The family, my mother and her sister.’

‘Her sister?’

‘My aunt Janet.’

‘And where is she?’

‘Does it matter?’ Polly said. ‘She can’t help you.’

‘Help me do what?’ said Kenny.

‘Build a case against my husband.’

‘Is that what you think I’m doing?’ said Kenny.

‘You said as much yourself.’

‘Your father worked for Carlo Manone, didn’t he?’

‘He was a runner. He ran a book, and did other things too.’

‘The bad old days,’ said Kenny, smiling.

‘In some ways not so bad as they are now,’ said Polly.

‘Do you remember him?’

‘No, not at all.’

She was disconcerted by his line of questioning. Much of what she had learned about her family history, her father’s disappearance in particular, had come from biased sources. Until she’d met and married Bernard Peabody, Mammy had clung to the notion that one day Frank Conway might turn up on her doorstep again: Aunt Janet too had kept a torch alight and, as far as Polly knew, still did.

‘Have you seen the sandbags?’ Kenny asked.

‘Sandbags? Where?’

‘In George Square,’ Kenny said.

‘No,’ said Polly. ‘Really? Why are we sand-bagging the Square. I thought we’d appeased Herr Hitler and the threat of invasion had gone away.’

‘Gas-masks, air-raid precautions, Civil Defence exercises,’ Kenny said. ‘It’s a mad panic in the regional stations, I can tell you. The man in the street might choose to believe Hitler’s gone soft but those in the know – well, they know better. What does your husband think will happen?’

‘Do you mean whose side is he on?’ Polly said. ‘I can’t give you an answer, I’m afraid. In spite of the fact that I’m his wife I’ve no idea where Dominic’s sympathies lie. I imagine he regards himself as much more Scottish than Italian, however, and will do what he can for the country.’

Kenny nodded. ‘That’s good. We’ll need all the patriots we can get when the balloon goes up.’ He paused, reached into his jacket pocket. ‘Speaking of patriots, have you ever seen either of these two before?’

She took the photographs, tilted them to the light. Even in the gloom of the restaurant she recognised them at once: the blonde girl, younger, fresher, more innocent, but the blonde girl none the less: the other – the squat, bull-like little man with the huge moustache.

She handed back the photographs.

‘Who are they?’ Polly said. ‘Are they suspected of a crime?’

‘We’re anxious to trace their whereabouts, that’s all.’

‘I can’t help you, sorry,’ Polly said.

She wondered what he would do now: bully her, threaten her, or cajole? Would he be too frightened of putting himself out of favour with Rosie, perhaps, to do anything at all?

He broke bread into his soup and ate.

The photographs lay on the tablecloth by his left hand.

At length Polly said, ‘The girl, is she connected with my husband in some way? I mean, Kenneth, are you easing yourself into blackmailing me?’

He glanced up in alarm. ‘Certainly not.’

‘Where are they, these people?’

‘I wish we knew.’

‘Have you been – what’s the word – have you been tailing my husband?’

‘This isn’t America, Mrs Manone. We’re not G-men.’

‘Or Tony: tailing Tony?’

‘Tony Lombard? No.’

‘Could you really put Jackie Hallop in prison if you wished to?’

‘I think we probably could.’

‘What department do you work for, Kenneth?’

‘Criminal Investigation.’

‘Isn’t my brother-in-law, isn’t Jackie a criminal?’

‘We’re not concerned with the Hallops right now.’

‘Ah!’ Polly said quietly. ‘So you’re after bigger fish.’

‘That’s it in a nutshell, Mrs Manone.’

‘I do wish you’d call me Polly,’ Polly said. ‘If we’re going to do business together at least we should try to pretend that we’re on friendly terms.’

‘Are we going to do business together?’ Kenny said.

‘Exchange information,’ Polly said.

‘Information about what exactly?’

‘About the blonde girl in the photograph.’

‘You do know her then?’

‘Not her name, not who she is. I’ve seen her, though. Once.’

‘Where?’

‘At the races at Ravenspark last November.’

‘Did you speak with her?’ Kenny asked.

Polly gave a scornful little ‘huh’ at his naïvety. ‘My husband did.’

‘Not you?’

‘No.’

‘And the man, the chap with the moustache?’

‘He was with her. They were together.’

‘Have you seen them since?’

‘No.’

‘Have you any idea where either of them might be right now?’

‘I think,’ Polly said, evasively, ‘that they’re friends of John Flint.’

‘Can you find out where either of them is right now?’

‘Find out,’ said Polly. ‘How?’

‘By asking your husband maybe.’

‘Don’t be silly,’ Polly said. ‘My husband tells me next to nothing. If he does have this young blonde girl put away somewhere, do you suppose for one moment that he’s going to tell me, tell his wife?’

Kenny nodded and tried, without success, to look understanding.

Polly went on, ‘I’m not turning informer, you know.’

‘I realise that.’

‘And I’m not giving away information for free.’

‘Surely you don’t want paid?’

‘Money is the last thing I need,’ Polly said. ‘Answer me a question: you do care for my sister, don’t you?’

‘I thought that was pretty obvious.’

‘Don’t be glib with me, Kenneth. Tell me honestly that you care for my sister and that you aren’t just using her to worm your way in our family?’

‘I’m in love with Rosie.’

‘Will you marry her?’

‘It’s not the right time to think about marriage.’

‘Why not?’

‘The war – that sort of thing.’

‘Rosie knows nothing,’ Polly said. ‘Nothing about anything except books. She’s very good on the printed word. Besides, deafness is not a sterling attribute in an eavesdropper, is it? What I mean is this – I don’t want to see Rosie suffer. If you must ask questions, ask them of me not her. If we settle that point right here and now I’ll give you what little help I can.’

‘If you don’t mind me saying so, Polly, you’re not being very consistent,’ Kenny said. ‘In one breath you’re telling me you’re not an informer and in the next you’re promising to help me.’

‘This is very difficult for me, you understand,’ Polly said. ‘I owe a great deal to my husband, everything in fact. And I’ve my children to consider. What you’re asking me to do is help bring him down.’

‘I’m not asking you to do anything, Polly; you volunteered.’

She was about to argue, to let her tension show, then thought better of it. He was right, of course. She had given him the lead and she couldn’t blame him for pressing her now. They had reached the nub of the conversation. One more step, one more word and she would be committed to betrayal. She might pretend that she was doing it for Rosie, for Mammy, to keep them safe but she wasn’t. She was doing it for herself – and for Tony.

‘That,’ she said, ‘is true.’

‘Do you know where they are, the girl and the man?’

‘No,’ Polly said. ‘But I’ll make every effort to find out.’

‘By asking Dominic?’

‘By asking someone else,’ Polly said. ‘I do want something in exchange, however. I want to know what you have on this girl, and who she is?’

‘Can’t tell you that,’ said Kenny.

‘Because it’s top secret. Because the Home Office is barking at your heels?’

‘Because we don’t really know,’ Kenny said. ‘Honestly.’

‘In that case there’s nothing I can…’

‘All right,’ Kenny said. ‘I’ll tell you who she is, at least who we think she is.’ He pushed his plate to one side and lifted the photographs again, one in each hand. He held them towards her, faces uppermost.

‘The man is Edgar Harker,’ Kenny said. ‘The girl is his wife.’

‘His wife, not his daughter?’

‘Man and wife on the passport that brought them into Britain.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘As sure as we can be at this stage.’

‘Well, well!’ said Polly. ‘Well, well, well!’

‘Doesn’t Dominic know that Harker’s her husband?’

‘I’ll bet he doesn’t,’ Polly said.

And laughed.

*   *   *

They were gathered on the platform above the stalls. Tony had knocked up eight or ten planks, padded with several bales of straw purchased from the Breslin riding academy. He had told the owner, a woman, that he needed straw to fill camp mattresses for a Civil Defence training weekend, and she had swallowed his tale and taken his cash without a qualm.

The bales gave Dougie a little protection from chill draughts and screened the machinery from plain sight, though any competent constable or air raid warden could find it just by climbing the stairs. The fact that the machinery wasn’t hidden meant that its presence in the stables could be plausibly explained. As an added precaution Dougie would run off a batch of cheap-paper pamphlets cribbed from government handouts and leave them bundled on the floor as any small jobbing printer might do. So far no one had come near the farmhouse. The local ARP wardens were not well organised and the threat of bombs falling from the skies had receded since the signing of the Munich agreement.

Tony leaned against the bales and watched Dougie slit open a package with a penknife, peel away the waterproof outer layer and expose the dense weight of paper that the package contained.

Kneeling, Dougie slipped the knife blade under the top sheet and separated it cleanly from the ream. He got to his feet again and, holding the sheet high, let it unfurl down the length of his body. He peered at the sheet for half a minute then, frowning, carried it to the guillotine, attached it to a roller and just like a washerwife with a mangle, cranked a handle that fed the paper under the blade. He tugged another handle and the blade dropped, making a single clean cut along the top edge of the sheet. He extracted the cutting, removed the original sheet, adjusted the scale on the side of the guillotine precisely, fed the cutting through the roller and brought the blade down again – once, twice, three times – slicing the cut sheet into four banknote-sized pieces.

The girl leaned against Dominic, their shoulders touching.

Tony had the impression that she would have liked him to hold her hand.

From under his pullover Dougie produced a genuine Bank of England fiver. He snapped it several times, rubbed it flat between his palms and compared it with one of the blanks fresh from the guillotine.

‘Uh!’ he grunted. ‘Uh-huh!’

‘Is there something wrong, Douglas?’ the girl asked.

Her breath hung in the cold air of the stables, the question contained in a white cloud, like something inside a glass paperweight.

Dougie did not answer. He fingered the genuine note, then the blank. Then he picked up the three remaining blanks from the tray, slipped the genuine note between them and fanned them out like a hand of cards.

‘Feels like money,’ Dougie said. ‘Feels like real money.’

‘So it’s okay, is it?’ Dominic said.

‘I’ll need t’ examine it under an ultra-violet light,’ Dougie said, ‘but so far it looks damn-near perfect.’

‘You’ll have to check the whole consignment,’ Dominic said.

‘You bet I will,’ said Dougie. ‘Every bloody sheet.’

‘And then what will happen?’ Tony asked.

‘We wait for some kind person to send us a supply of ink,’ Dominic said.

‘Like who?’ said Tony.

But Dominic didn’t answer.

*   *   *

‘Does Jackie know what you’re up to?’ Dennis Hallop said.

‘Nope.’

‘How did you get outta the house?’

‘Told him I was goin’ to the pictures,’ Babs said. ‘The kiddies are in bed an’ he’s had his face fed so he didn’t kick up much of a fuss. What did you tell Gloria?’

‘Pub.’

‘She wouldn’t be too pleased.’

‘She’s never too pleased,’ said Dennis. ‘Are you ready for this?’

‘Yeah,’ Babs said. ‘Let’s get on with it.’

It was dark at the end of the cul-de-sac and she was nervous, more nervous than she had been in years. Last time she’d been this nervous was when they’d wheeled her out of the bungalow and banged her down the steps into the ambulance, when she’d panicked and thought she was losing Angus. Losing Angus: what a hope! She couldn’t have lost Angus if she’d jumped off the Kingston Bridge without a parachute. Six weeks after her panic attack the doctors had induced labour and Angus had come hurtling out into the world yelling Brrrrrroooooommmmmm-Brrrrrroooooommmmm or some equally unintelligible infant gibberish, and she’d never had a minute’s peace since.

She was nervous again now, though, seated behind the wheel of the Beezer that Dennis had brought out of the yard – and a view of the blank brick wall at the back of the shipyard didn’t help soothe her.

Dennis said, ‘Do you know what that is, Babs?’

‘Aye, it’s a bloody wall.’

‘Naw, naw: this.’

‘Steering wheel.’

‘Good. An’ this?’

‘Gear lever.’

‘What about this?’

‘Handbrake.’

‘Fine. Stick your legs out.’

‘Dennis, I’m not sure I…’

He put out his big, reliable hand, stuffed it between her knees and thrust them apart. ‘Three pedals down there. Feel ’em.’

‘Yeah – yep.’

He was almost on top of her, squeezed into the narrow leather seat that groaned and creaked every time he shifted his weight. She did not know why but she was nervous of Dennis too. Being crowded into the narrow BSA three-wheeler with him was – well, sexy.

She took a deep breath and said, ‘Are we gonna move, or what?’

‘Not ’til you switch on the engine.’

‘Dennis, in case you haven’t noticed we’re facin’ a brick wall.’

‘Aye,’ Dennis said.

‘Is that, you know, wise?’

‘A Beezer,’ Dennis said, ‘isn’t an ideal vehicle for to learn to drive in, Babs. Also, it’s not a good idea for you to be takin’ your first lesson in the dark.’

‘It’s a surprise,’ Babs said. ‘I want Jackie t’ be surprised.’

‘He’ll be surprised all right,’ said Dennis. ‘Hands on the wheel, please.’

She did as bidden. ‘Okay?’

‘Elbows down, grip it light, don’t cock your thumbs, feet on the pedals, right foot on the far pedal, that’s for to make it go, accelerate, right foot brake too, middle pedal, clutch for the left foot, just the left foot. Got all that?’

‘Yep.’

‘Left hand off the wheel, find the key, the key next the big switch. Don’t fumble, Babs, straight to it. Got it?’

‘Yep,’ she said. ‘Will I turn it on?’

‘Why are you doin’ this, Babs?’ Dennis said. ‘Women don’t hafta drive.’

‘I just wanna be prepared.’

He said nothing, gave no instruction for a full half-minute. He sat as stiffly as Dennis ever could, head pressed down a little by the arching roof, motionless, gazing out into the darkness, brooding on the word that remained unspoken, contemplating a war that might never take place.

‘The trouble wi’ Beezers,’ he said, ‘is you can never get them t’ stop.’

‘Is that why we’re facin’ a brick wall?’

‘Yeah.’

‘An’ is that why you’ve got your hand on my leg.’

‘Yeah.’

‘Is that the only reason?’

‘Oh, yeah,’ said Dennis.

‘Will I switch on now?’ Babs asked.

And Dennis said, ‘Why not?’

*   *   *

The house was difficult to find. The new council estate sprawled behind tall, old-fashioned tenements, hemmed in by chemical works and the great smoking stacks of the steel works. Rough-cast and black slate, scruffy privet hedges and gardens without growth all served to reduce the development into a confusion of identical roads and avenues.

When he’d tracked down the woman’s address from the files it hadn’t occurred to him that she’d be living in a new scheme. He had imagined her in a clean-cut Gorbals tenement refurbished for spinsters and widows and safely removed from noisy thoroughfares and the cut-throat pubs of the Calcutta Road. He didn’t know the south side of the river well, of course. As a young constable his beat had been Anderston, which wasn’t exactly the Garden of Eden but as far as slums went wasn’t a patch on Gorbals or the over-crowded acres of Laurieston.

The council project of semi-detached, two-storey houses confused him for it had already assumed a chafed and shoddy appearance as if the fabric of the social cloth had been stretched too tight for the tenants’ comfort. There wasn’t a pub this side of Jewel Street or a tramcar short of the Westbrae. The streets were strangely deserted even at this comparatively early hour and there was no one about from whom he could ask directions.

At length he discovered a dented metal sign – Primrose Avenue – and walked along the pavement, counting out numbers. He turned into a gateless opening, walked up a little path and knocked on a green-painted door.

Light glimmered faintly behind an orange curtain in the front-room window: darkness upstairs. When he saw the curtain flick, quick and furtive, he knocked on the door again.

‘Who is it?’ the voice had a rasp to it, thin as a fretsaw blade.

Kenny didn’t want to alarm the woman. He had always been considerate – perhaps too considerate – of the finer feelings of the citizens with whom he came in contact.

‘Miss McKerlie?’ he said.

‘Yes.’

‘I wonder if I might have a word with you, please.’

‘What’re you sellin’?’

‘I’m not a salesman. I – I’m from the Civil Defence.’

She opened the door an inch.

At first he thought it was the smell of the house but when she eased the door back a little more he realised that the odour came from the woman herself. She did not smell musty or unclean, but she did smell of milk, the faint moist acidic undertone of curdled whey.

‘Is it the garden? Are you wantin’ t’ dig up the garden?’

‘No,’ Kenny said cautiously. ‘It’s not the garden, Miss McKerlie.’

He took out his card and held it up to what light there was.

He could see nothing of the interior of the house, only the implacable green door and the woman leaning around it, shorn off at the waist like a glove-puppet.

She did not see the card, or perhaps deliberately ignored it.

‘I’ve told them they’re not diggin’ up my garden. They’ve been at me before, them and their like. They can dig up Jimmy Dunn’s garden but they’re not diggin’ up mine, not for all the bombs we’re goin’ to have fallin’ on us. Is it gas-masks you’re sellin’? I’ve got mine already.’ When she made to close the door Kenny put out his hand, closed it into a fist, stuck it against the jamb. The woman swayed back, grizzling: ‘Have you come for me as well? Have you come for t’ take me away too?’

‘Please, Miss McKerlie, look at my card. I’m a policeman. I just require to ask you one or two questions about…’

‘No uniform, no helmet?’

He wondered if the few sparse details he had garnered about her had somehow lacked the salient fact that she was nuts. She certainly looked nothing like her sister and had not one shred of Lizzie Peabody’s affability. She was small, shrivelled and waspish, and her hair was dyed bright red.

Kenny planted one foot on the top step and kept his fist where it was.

‘Ten minutes of your time, Miss McKerlie. That’s all I ask.’

‘Did she send you?’

‘She? Who?’

‘Her, my sister.’

‘Your sister,’ Kenny fibbed. ‘I didn’t even know you had a sister.’

She took the card at last and squinted at it briefly. She had, he guessed, already made up her mind that he was trustworthy. She gave him back the card, opened the door, popped her head out and glanced up and down the deserted avenue as if afraid that someone would see her admitting a man to her spinster’s domain and think the worst.

Kenny stepped into the hall.

There was a small antique table with cloth flowers in a Chinese vase upon it. A door led to the bathroom, another to the kitchenette, and stairs disappeared into darkness on his left. The aroma of pine-scented wax polish absorbed the woman’s sour odour completely. He followed her into the ground-floor living-room.

It too was nicely furnished, not cluttered. The dining-table was covered with an embroidered cloth and a whatnot in the corner displayed a modest collection of cheap china bric-à-brac. The armchair in front of the coal fire was upright and had wooden arms but had no mate on the other side of the hearth. On the rug by the side of the chair was a sewing basket, open to show needles and bobbins of thread. There were, he noticed, no photographs or prints and nothing on the mantelshelf except a clock and a pair of empty brass candlesticks.

‘I’m not givin’ you tea,’ Janet McKerlie said.

‘I didn’t ask for tea,’ Kenny said, though after his journey out from the city by tramcar and his long walk he would have been glad of a cup. ‘You’re obviously busy, Miss McKerlie, so I’ll come right to the…’

‘How did you get my name?’

‘Pardon?’

‘How do you know who I am?’

‘Ah – em – it came up in the course of enquiries.’

‘Enquiries? What enquiries?’ the woman said.

She was as small as her sister was large, had the same sort of build as Polly, the same shape of face as Rosie. He wondered if this is what Rosie would look like when she reached her fifties. He sincerely hoped not.

Kenny said, ‘I’ve a couple of snapshots I’d like you to look at in case you recognise either of the…’

‘Snapshots, is it?’ She put one skinny hand into the pocket of her sewing apron, folded the other arm cross her bosom and clasped the side of her neck. Her pose was aggressive, proud. ‘I don’t know anythin’ about snapshots.’

‘Please, just look at them.’

‘Are they murderers?’

‘No, no, nothing like that.’

‘Are they Manone’s boys?’

He hesitated: he hadn’t expected her to drop Dominic’s name without prompting. He was tempted to chase the lead and a queer feeling of anticipation stole over him at the realisation that Janet McKerlie probably knew a great deal about Carlo Manone’s activities before the Great War.

If his hunch was correct Janet McKerlie may also have been connected with Manone’s mob, may even have cut herself off from the family because she disapproved of Polly’s marriage to Carlo’s son. He reminded himself sternly not to invent, not to pre-judge the volume or quality of information that this woman might be able to divulge – even if she was a nut.

He said, ‘No, they are just two people that we’re interested in, that’s all.’

She unwrapped her arm from across her chest and held out her hand.

‘Show me,’ she said, ‘an’ get it over with.’

He gave her the photographs one at a time.

She dipped into her apron pocket and produced a pair of spectacles, stuck them on her nose and studied the snapshot of the girl.

‘Is she a tart?’

‘No, I don’t think so,’ Kenny said.

‘She looks like a tart to me. What’s that she’s wearin’?’ Janet McKerlie peered more closely at the photo. ‘Is that shot silk?’

‘I really couldn’t say. Do you recognise her, Miss McKerlie?’

‘No, I do not.’ She flung the photograph back at him. ‘Never seen her in my life before. Never want to, a tart like that. Huh!’

‘How about this chap?’ Kenny said.

He passed her the shot of Edgar Harker.

She held the photograph at arm’s length, brought it closer, blinked, held it almost against her nose, then let out a long, whimpering cry.

‘What is it, Miss McKerlie? What’s wrong?’

She reached behind her, groping for support, staggered and might have fallen if Kenny hadn’t caught her arm. He eased her into the armchair by the fire.

‘Is it the snap? Do you recognise him?’ Kenny asked urgently.

‘It’s him,’ she said. ‘Oh, God! Oh my good God! It’s Frank.’

‘Frank?’

‘Frank Conway. My Frank. He’s come back for me at last.’