Wearing Purple (Oz Blackstone Mystery) Page 5

  ‘And have you known PC Dylan long?’ I asked her.

  ‘Watch it, you,’ said Mike, as the girl, not yet attuned to my waspish humour, shot him a quick frown. ‘That’s Detective Inspector.’

  ‘Still?’ I laced my tone with all the incredulity I could muster.

  ‘Cheeky bastard, Blackstone. I shouldn’t be for much longer, since you’re interested. I’m expecting a promotion within the next few months.’

  ‘How come? Are all your gaffers due to go up in the same dodgy aircraft?’

  Dylan smiled at my wife. ‘How did a sensible looking lady like you wind up with this?’ he asked. He’s the sort of bloke who can’t help chatting up every woman he meets, even when he has one on his arm.

  ‘Sunshine,’ she drawled, poker-faced. ‘I taught him everything he knows.’ She looked across at Susie Gantry, and smiled. ‘How about you? When did you draw this card?’

  ‘About two months ago,’ the red-haired girl replied, with an appraising glance at Dylan. ‘I’m still deciding whether to shove it back in the deck.’

  For once in my life, I began to feel sorry for him. ‘How’s your old boss these days, Mike?’ I asked, by way of changing the subject.

  ‘Ricky, you mean? He’s off the force, and working as a security consultant to one of the big supermarkets. I saw him a few weeks ago.’ He paused. ‘Your name came up in conversation, in fact.’

  ‘Asking after me, was he?’

  Dylan grinned at me. ‘More or less. What he actually said was “Do you know where that wee Something or Other Blackstone is these days?” Ricky still blames you for landing him in the shit, you know.’

  ‘That’s a good one.’ I laughed as I said it. ‘The guy was banging a murder victim’s wife, and he got himself implicated in his own investigation. How did that all finish up anyway? I never heard.’

  ‘The Crown Office decided there wasn’t enough evidence to proceed, so all charges were dropped. Officially, the case is still open.’

  ‘Does Ross still think I did it?’

  Susie Gantry looked astounded. Her wide-eyed gaze went from Dylan to me then back to the detective.

  ‘No, he’s given up on that one, you’ll be glad to hear. He’s back to thinking that your girlfriend’s sister did it, and that you covered up for her.’

  ‘Well he can piss up a rope, then, for he’s wrong on both counts.’

  ‘Does that mean you know who did it?’ Dylan smiled, in a sort of a sly way. Caution, Blackstone, the voice in my head whispered. This bampot might not be as daft as he looks.

  ‘The only thing I know, Detective Inspector, is that if you haven’t caught whoever did it by now, then you never will.’

  He took a mouthful of warm ale. ‘For once, you’re right. Ahh, bugger it. It’s no business of mine any more. So how are you liking Glasgow, Jan?’ He switched back to chatting up my wife.

  ‘Very much. We love it here. It’s good for business too.’

  ‘Christ.’ He nodded in my direction. ‘You’re not in the same line as him, are you?’

  She shook her head, sending her lustrous brown hair swinging. Then she laughed, deep as a note from a big bell. Dylan had been right about one thing. She was looking absolutely gorgeous. ‘Certainly not, sir,’ she said. ‘I’m a chartered accountant. But I am like Oz in that I’m self-employed. ’

  ‘What sort of clients do you have?’ Susie Gantry asked. I noticed that she was getting through her pint faster than her boyfriend.

  ‘Small businesses, mostly,’ Jan replied. ‘A couple of advertising agencies, a design consultancy, a printing firm, a car dealership, two legal practices. I keep their financial affairs in order, and provide them with management accounts on a monthly or quarterly basis, whichever their bankers want.’

  ‘What have they got to do with it?’ Dylan asked. That was naive, even for him. Jan looked at him with the same expression that she wore when she was explaining something to our nephews.

  ‘If you were lending money to someone’s business,’ she said, ‘you’d want to make sure it was being handled properly. Business bank managers are just the same; their careers depend on the success of their funding decisions, so when they lend to small companies they need that assurance too.

  ‘Most of my clients have come through introductions by bankers.’

  Like me, Jan didn’t like to be asked specific questions about her customers’ businesses. To head Dylan off, I turned to his girlfriend. ‘What about you, Susie?’ I asked her. ‘Are you in the same line of work as Inspector Clouseau here?’

  Her laugh was the opposite of Jan’s; high-pitched, nervous, a bit forced, I thought. She was attractive, but her quick, darting eyes, and her sharply cut features, gave her a highly-strung look. ‘That’ll be right,’ she burst out. ‘Imagine a Lady Provost in the CID. The Labour Group would just love that.’

  I guess it must have been my turn to look surprised. I had been in Glasgow long enough to know all about Jack Gantry, Susie’s father, and the post he held. The Lord Provost is Glasgow’s First Citizen, elected for three years by the City Council from among its number, to chair its meetings but more important than that, to be its public face on all important occasions at home, and to promote it around the world. A Mayor, to use the English term, but much more so.

  To some extent, the job is what the incumbents make of it. Some Lord Provosts have come and gone without making much of a dent in the awareness of the Great Glaswegian Public. Jack Gantry was different: he was Mr Glasgow. The theory of the office is that its bearer has no political power, but Susie’s dad was power incarnate. He was in his late fifties, and he had dominated the city’s Labour Party for thirty years, resisting all attempts to ease him from the Majority Leader’s room into the Lord Provost’s Office, until finally, he had decided to don the heavy gold chain of office. It was said that his successor as Labour Group Leader had enjoyed the illusion of power for three hours, before Gantry had called him in and had told him that when it came to political decisions, it was to be business as usual.

  I knew all that, having read it in the Herald and the Evening Times, but the Lady Provost reference threw me. Susie spotted my confusion and explained. ‘The Lord Provost is entitled to be partnered on all official functions; it’s expected, so that VIPs’ wives have somebody to talk to over dinner. Usually it’s his wife, and that’s fine; my mum’s dead though, so I chum my dad. Lady Provost’s a sort of unofficial title.’ Her brittle laugh sounded once more. ‘When the Lord Provost’s a lady they have a problem, mind you!’

  ‘Is it a full-time job?’

  Susie shook her head. ‘No, although looking after my dad is. I’m working in his business during his term of office, and probably beyond that. He’s a building contractor, among other things; I’m running the group for him.’

  Dylan patted her hand, and glanced at his watch. ‘Had we not better be going, Lady Provost?

  ‘There’s a reception at the City Chambers. We’re due there at half six,’ he explained to Jan.

  I couldn’t stop myself. ‘Here, does that make you the Boy Provost, Mike?’

  For some reason, Susie thought this was maybe the funniest thing she had ever heard. Dylan looked at me as if he wished I was parked on a double yellow line.

  ‘Are you two doing anything after this?’ his girlfriend asked us.

  ‘We were going for a pizza, that’s all,’ Jan replied.

  ‘Come with us, then. It won’t be much of a do . . . it’s for the Prime Minister of Estonia . . . but it’ll give you a chance to see the City Chambers. If you’re new in Glasgow, I don’t suppose you’ll have been inside yet.’

  ‘That’s great, Susie,’ said my wife. ‘Are you sure it’s all right?’

  ‘Course it is, girl, you’re wi’ the Lady Provost. And even if you weren’t, you’d be with Jack Gantry’s daughter.’

  ‘But are we well enough dressed?’ Jan asked. I was miffed by that. I thought my Marks and Spencer suit was at least as smart as Dylan’s
discounted designer.

  ‘Overdressed if anything.’ Susie smoothed down her close-fitting red dress as she rose. She was trim, although not nearly as well built as Jan. I looked at my wife, in her formal grey suit, and as always, was swept by an urge to take her home and help her out of it. But I could see she was sold on the reception. At least half a dozen lawyers’ heads turned to look at us as we moved towards the door. I knew for certain that none of them were looking at either Dylan or me.

  It was cold, dark and drizzly outside, turning colder too, but there are always plenty of taxis cruising around near to Babbity’s. We hailed one, and five minutes later, were decanted onto the pavement in George Square, at the entrance to the City Chambers. We hadn’t even made it to the door, when a dark-suited council officer emerged, to greet Susie effusively. Out there in the rain, he was wearing a tail-coat, a white shirt with a wing collar and a red bow tie, but he still managed to look imposing, a man of authority rather than a lackey. The Lady Provost whispered in his ear as he ushered her inside. The doorkeeper cast a quick look at Jan and me over his shoulder. He nodded, as if with approval, and muttered, ‘Of course, Ms Gantry, no problem.’ I glanced at his tie and wondered if the colour would change to blue with the election of a Conservative administration; then I told myself not to be daft. In Glasgow, there’s more chance of an extra-terrestrial invasion than a Tory Council.

  The seat of Glasgow’s local government was built in the Victorian era, as a monument to its affluence and its stature in the Imperial economy. A decade or so back, when stone-cleaning was all the rage, its exterior was given a good scrub. Unfortunately the grim predictions of several architects have been proved to be true, as now the great George Square palace has taken on a faint greenish tinge in the glare of the sun.

  It wasn’t evident on that winter’s evening though. Even if it had been, I would barely have noticed, given the opulence inside the place. Glasgow City Chambers is built largely of some sort of marble or polished stone, brownish with yellow seams running through it. The woodwork is all dark; great, varnished panels, probably mahogany. All of it is over a hundred years old, yet it looks pristine. Any modern administration which spent on its accommodation a quarter of the amount which the City Chambers would cost today would be voted out of office at the first opportunity, but the grandees who built it were hugely proud of it, as are thousands of their Glaswegian descendants.

  ‘Come on and I’ll show you round,’ Susie offered, as our coats were taken by another of the many attendants in the entrance hall. ‘I’ve got a couple of minutes before I’m on duty.’ She rushed us up stairways and through corridors, in and out of empty offices and committee rooms, and finally, into the Council Chamber itself, wood-panelled, brightly lit and worthy of any legislature.

  ‘Not bad, eh,’ she said proudly.

  ‘Not bad indeed,’ I agreed. ‘When was the last time there was a close vote in here?’

  ‘Back when God was a boy. That’s the way it is in Glasgow.’

  I knew this too. The ruling Whips kept a grip on their members which was even tighter than their opposite numbers in Westminster.

  ‘Come on,’ said Susie. ‘Time I was standing beside my old man.’ She led us down a wide stone staircase and along to the Banqueting Hall. The council officer who had welcomed us had moved station, taking up a position in the big double doorway. Behind him, with his back to us, there stood a man in a grey suit with an ornate gold chain around his neck.

  ‘Hi Dad,’ said Susie, entwining her arm with his as he turned. ‘Told you we’d be on time.’

  Lord Provost Jack Gantry smiled at his daughter, with a resigned look on his face. ‘Aye,’ he sighed, ‘but you don’t half cut it fine.’ He looked beyond her, nodding to Dylan. ‘Hello Mike. I hear the case went okay then.’

  ‘Couldn’t have been better, Mr Gantry. Those six won’t see the countryside again till they’re old men.’

  ‘Aye, sure.’ His eyes narrowed as he flashed a shrewd look at the policeman. ‘Of course you realise that there were boys out in the housing schemes taking their place before the trial even started. There’s no more abhorrent a vacuum to some than a dried up drugs supply.’

  ‘We do what we can to keep on top of the problem.’

  ‘Aye son, but you’re fartin’ against thunder and you know it.

  ‘The only way you’ll ever put these drugs gangsters out of business is by taking the law out of it. Cigarettes and alcohol are bad for people too, but the government still makes money from them. If people want other forms of narcotics their demand will always create supply. Decriminalise, and at least that supply will be subject to proper market forces; regulation, quality control and competition-based pricing.’

  Dylan smiled at him. ‘Is that the Labour Party view, Jack?’

  The Lord Provost’s eyes narrowed. ‘Fuck the Labour Party, son,’ he said softly, between clenched teeth. ‘That’s the Jack Gantry view.’

  ‘Dad!’ Susie tugged her father’s arm.

  ‘Sorry hen,’ he said, suddenly looking past Dylan, becoming aware of us for the first time.

  ‘Well! You’re not in the Social Club now.’ She drew him towards us. ‘These are Oz and Jan Blackstone; friends of Mike’s. From Edinburgh originally, but they live in Glasgow now.’

  Lord Provost Gantry treated us to one of the most professional smiles I have ever seen. ‘Welcome to our city,’ he said, extending his hand to Jan. ‘Are you registered to vote yet?’

  ‘We will be come the next election,’ she replied, in a beautifully judged tone, which made it perfectly clear that nothing about us could be taken for granted. As I shook his hand, I looked beyond Jack Gantry’s smile. I thought of the other people I had met that day: Jerry Gradi, Darius Hencke, Liam Matthews. It terms of sheer presence, they all paled beside this man. Behind all that civic bonhomie, the Lord Provost’s eyes were as hard as the stone of which his palace was built.

  He was an inch or two shorter than me, but he seemed twice as wide. Even the massive chain of office sat lightly on his shoulders. There was nothing threatening about him, not here, in his Banqueting Hall. But still, I could understand completely how he had come to have the keys of the City in his pocket for so long.

  In the doorway, the first of his official guests had begun to appear.

  ‘I’ll look forward to speaking to you later,’ he said. ‘But we’ve got to go to work now. Mike, you make sure that everyone gets a drink, okay.’

  Dylan nodded and led Jan and me off towards one of the white-aproned waitresses who stood around the big room. She took a few steps to meet us, holding out her tray of red and white wine, letting us help ourselves.

  ‘I’ll bet this was champagne in the old days,’ said the detective.

  ‘I’m sure you’re right,’ Jan agreed. ‘But even now, what would the folk in Easterhouse and Castlemilk think if they could see this?’

  ‘They’d think their rents were too high,’ I muttered. ‘They’d think that they’d rather have an extra copper on the beat.’

  ‘Hey come on, Oz,’ Dylan protested. ‘We got a good result for the people today.’

  ‘Sure you did, but you’re only sticking your finger in a hole in the dyke, just like the Lord Provost said. How did you come to meet his daughter, anyway?’

  ‘One of the Crime Squad guys introduced us in a pub one night. We just hit it off.’

  ‘What does Mrs Dylan think about it?’ I asked, casually, as the room began to fill up around us. His face clouded over. I could see that for the first time ever, I had got to him. To my surprise, I felt slightly rotten about it.

  ‘Come on, Oz.You must know that Maxine walked out on me. Every other bugger in Edinburgh does.’

  ‘Yes of course, Mike, I’d forgotten. I’m sorry; that was uncalled for.’ I shot him a quick, let’s make up, smile. ‘The wee lass seems nice though.’

  He switched back into the normal Dylan mode at once. ‘She is that. Where she gets the energy from I don’t know.�
� He grinned; actually, it wasn’t far short of a leer. ‘Fair wears me out, she does.’ I didn’t need to look at Jan to gauge her reaction. I could feel her bristling beside me.

  A young waiter, brandishing a tray of canapés, intervened at just the right moment. Our detective friend grabbed three quails eggs, fried and served on circles of toast, plus two cornets filled with prawns. My wife and I declined, feeling guilty about the people in Easterhouse and Castlemilk, and with a thought to our pizza, which had only been postponed.

  Dylan was halfway through his second quail’s egg, when I saw him look up, his eyes widening. All of a sudden a shadow fell over me.

  ‘Well hello, buddy. Hello again, Mrs Blackstone. I didn’t know you moved in these circles.’

  ‘We don’t, Everett,’ I said, accepting the huge - and mercifully gentle - handshake. ‘We were arrested and brought here by our friend, Detective Inspector Dylan. You’ve just been greeted by his girlfriend and her father, over by the entrance.’

  ‘Ah.’ He looked down at the policeman, who seemed totally stunned by the newcomer. ‘So you’re with Susie, huh. Lucky man.’

  That’s three of us who’re lucky, in that case, I heard myself think, as I looked at the coffee-skinned woman who stood beside my newest client. I had seen her before, of course, mewing and taunting seductively, from the video screen in the GWA studio.

  ‘You haven’t met Diane yet, have you, Oz?’ She looked at me with big, soft, brown eyes. There was something about her which told me, in the same instant, who was boss in the Davis household. But in the same moment it came to me that people probably thought the same about my wife.

  The giant leaned down towards Dylan, in a half bow. ‘Hi, I’m Everett Davis.’

  ‘Better known as Daze?’ the policeman ventured.

  A laugh rumbled up, and surfaced. ‘Probably: but it’s okay, Daze ain’t here tonight. Just Everett and Diane Davis, a businessman and his wife.’ He turned to me. ‘Jack Gantry invited us as a personal favour. I’m trying to cut a deal with an Estonian station, so when I heard about this reception, I had to be here.’