Wives at War (29 page)

‘Yes, of course.'

‘Soon?'

He didn't answer.

He only managed to deliver something midway between a nod and a shake of the head then, closing the door behind him, tiptoed away to hunt down a bus to carry him safely home.

12

Christy was a considerate lover, persistent rather than demanding. He lacked Fin's selfish refinements and the aggression that had made her affair with Tony so exciting. Afterward they lay in each other's arms in the big bed upstairs and listened to the empty rattle of tramcars trolling the length of the Paisley Road.

‘I have to ask you,' Christy said, ‘about Hughes.'

‘What about him?'

‘Are you finished with him?'

‘Yes.'

‘Do you think he knows you're finished with him?'

‘I think he's known for some time.'

‘Don't you love him, even a little?'

‘It was, I suppose, a sort of marriage of convenience,' Polly said. ‘Does that make me sound like a slut?'

‘Not in my book,' Christy said.

His hair was slicked with sweat, his eyelids heavy with sleep. She felt sleepy too, not leaden but light, almost feathery, but she had no desire to leave the upstairs room and scuttle down to her foxhole in the basement.

She said, ‘I think Fin realised I was falling for you even before I knew it myself. It all happened so quickly. Do you ever feel that everything is speeding away from you and you have to catch it before it disappears?'

‘Polly, I won't be here for ever,' Christy told her. ‘As soon as Christmas is past, next month or the month after—'

‘Let's not talk about it, not right now.'

The curtains sighed in window frames loosened by blast. The whole house had been shaken, in fact. One more bomb in the neighbourhood and Polly had a feeling that Dominic's handsome little mansion would simply fall apart.

‘Someone will have to tell Babs,' Christy said.

‘Oh, God!' Polly said. ‘Why does it have to be so complicated? I thought falling in love was supposed to solve everything.'

‘Only in books,' said Christy.

*   *   *

The motorcar had no insignia and no official flag in the bonnet. Even so, Kenny spotted it for a wrong 'un as soon as he stepped out of the close.

It was a quarter past eight on a Monday morning, the sky lidded with heavy cloud and a sniff of snow in the air. Cloud had kept the bombers away and there was a faint, unrealistic supposition even among case-hardened coppers that Goering might keep his dogs leashed until Christmas was past.

Kenny lit a cigarette and studied the long, low-slung motorcar out of the corner of his eye; a Lancia – he hadn't seen one of those in ages and certainly didn't expect to find one parked in Cowcaddens. He was wary, almost jumpy, for he'd been responsible for rounding up the Glasgow end of a Liverpool-based gang who had been selling illicit explosives and the Irish had threatened reprisals. He preferred to keep Rosie in the dark about the cases in which he was involved and was relieved that she had left the flat before him.

There was only one man in the Lancia, the driver.

Kenny tossed away his cigarette and crossed the street.

He advanced on the motorcar from the rear. If the driver had a shooter he would have to open the car door to fire and Kenny had already worked out an advantageous angle of attack. He mightn't spend hours in the gymnasium or running round the sports ground but he was still nimble enough to tackle one man with a gun. Officially he wasn't supposed to carry a weapon but he kept a six-inch metal ruler, honed to a cutting edge, in his pocket. He slipped the ruler from his pocket, wrapped it in a handkerchief and held it down against his trouser leg as he came abreast of the car.

‘May I be of some assistance?'

‘I certainly hope so,' the driver said. ‘Inspector MacGregor, is it not?'

The window had been rolled down six or eight inches but the driver was sensible enough not to stick out a hand.

‘I don't know what you're talking about,' said Kenny.

He heard the man laugh. All he could see of him was a shabby tweed sports jacket with leather-patched elbows, and some tight, fair curls.

‘I was under the impression,' the man said, ‘that you SPU Johnnies were supposed to be awfully phlegmatic. Is that a knife you have there?'

‘Who are you and what are you doing here?'

‘Spot of unofficial business,' the driver said, ‘concerning our mutual friend from across the Atlantic.'

‘Show me your identification.'

‘'Fraid I can't. It wouldn't serve much purpose in any case,' the driver said. ‘I've more identity cards than you can shake a stick at. If you must have a name to conjure with, call me Marzipan.'

‘Marzipan?' said Kenny. ‘Oh yes, that sounds about right.'

Keeping the metal ruler snug against his leg, he walked around the Lancia and opened the passenger door. The silly code name had already given him a clue, and the toothbrush moustache and military-style knot in the chap's necktie confirmed his suspicion that he was dealing with a commissioned officer.

He slid into the passenger seat and closed the door.

‘Headquarters?' The driver reached for the ignition switch. ‘Save you the tram fare, if nothing else.'

Kenny nodded, heard the roar of the big engine and felt the thrust of acceleration against his back as the Lancia surged forward and headed downhill towards the centre of the city.

In spite of the cold, Marzipan wore no overcoat, but a long, striped scarf was tied about his chest like a bandolier. He drove casually, almost recklessly.

‘I'll come directly to the point,' he said. ‘You've been making enquiries about one of our running-mates, Commander James McAfee Cameron of the United States Navy. I've been given the task of discovering why you're interested in this fellow.'

‘No you haven't,' said Kenny. ‘Some clerk in the Admiralty may have tipped you the wink about my enquiry but you already know the answer. You're here to tell me to lay off Christy Cameron.'

‘Actually, I hadn't realised you were laying into Christy Cameron.'

‘He's lodging with my wife's sister, that's all.'

‘Come now, that's far from all.'

‘All right,' Kenny said. ‘I know he's some kind of a spy.'

‘The Americans are frightfully prickly about their intelligence sources,' Marzipan said. ‘They're new at the spying game and therefore need our co-operation to set up networks and consolidate sources. Cameron's one of several hundred brand-new, inexperienced agents. Hard-line West Pointers detest them, of course, because they blur the line between civil and military authority.'

‘Which side are you on?' said Kenny. ‘Civil or military?'

Sandwiched between a double-decker tram and a truck laden with rough timber, the Lancia came to a halt.

‘It's a combined operation,' Marzipan said. ‘It may seem eccentric to you, Inspector, but believe me this plan is much more practical than many of the harebrained schemes the secret services have dreamed up so far.'

‘Like incendiary bats and phosphorescent foxes, you mean?'

‘Ah, you've heard those preposterous tales, have you?'

‘Hardly more preposterous than encouraging a criminal to fund an uprising in Italy. That's what this meeting's about, isn't it? Manone, his wife, and some Communist guerrilla group in Italy that needs cash to buy arms?'

‘Organised resistance in Italy doesn't exist yet.'

‘So it's a pie-in-the-sky project, is it?'

The car started forward again, weaving between traffic in the general direction of St Andrew's Street.

‘The Americans are hot on the idea,' Marzipan admitted. ‘Christy Cameron was recruited by his brother, who has, I believe, a passing acquaintance with Dominic Manone. Manone made his initial approach through US Naval Intelligence. In return for his generous contribution to the fighting fund in Italy he'll receive immunity from deportation, a clean bill of health and all the rights and privileges of full American citizenship.'

‘And his family?'

‘Here, or over there?'

‘Over there,' said Kenny. ‘The old man, Carlo, and the brother are big-time racketeers. I don't imagine that the FBI will just pat
them
on the head and tell them to run off and play.'

‘No, I don't imagine they will,' said Marzipan. ‘However, that isn't my concern. My concern is making sure that you don't upset the applecart by asking too many awkward questions.'

‘And?' said Kenny.

‘To keep an eye on our boy.'

‘Cameron, you mean?'

‘Of course.'

‘What about Hughes?'

‘Hughes?' said Marzipan. ‘Who the devil's Hughes?'

‘He's my concern,' said Kenny. ‘Hughes is Polly Manone's partner.'

‘Looks after the investments and controls the money, does he?'

‘Yes,' Kenny said, ‘and I have good reason to believe that Dominic Manone controls him.'

‘Curiouser and curiouser!' said Marzipan.

‘By the by, Hughes is sleeping with my sister-in-law.'

‘What, Manone's wife?'

‘Yep, Polly,' said Kenny. ‘Polly's the key to this mess. Polly's the puzzle because, sister-in-law or not, I have no idea whose side she's on or what particular game she's playing.'

‘Are you sure that she's playing any sort of game?'

‘Polly?' said Kenny. ‘You bet.'

The Lancia bumped over broken cobbles and nosed down a lane adjacent to St Andrew's Street. Marzipan hadn't finished with Kenny, however. He halted the motorcar facing the gable of the old Saltmarket bath house, which had been sandbagged out of all recognition and now housed the fire service's equivalent of a flying squad.

‘Do you have a dossier on her?' he asked.

‘On Hughes and Manone, not on Polly,' Kenny said. ‘How do I know that Polly's playing a game? For the simple reason that she's her father's daughter. She'd murder me for saying so but she has the same devious streak in her as the late, unlamented Frank Conway. She lacks the old man's viciousness but she's just as self-seeking. Once she sets her mind on something there's no stopping her.'

‘You don't have a very high opinion of the lady, do you?'

‘On the contrary,' said Kenny. ‘If you get her on your side she could be your most valuable asset. She'd make a wonderful spy.'

‘But we don't know whose side she's on, do we?'

‘Isn't that why you've imported the American?'

Marzipan grinned and rubbed his moustache. ‘Damn and blast it! And I thought we were being awfully clever.'

‘Do you want to see the file on Hughes?'

Marzipan shook his head. ‘Not necessarily. Now that we understand each other, Inspector, I think I'll leave Mr Hughes to you.'

‘And Polly?'

‘Hm,' said Marzipan, still stroking his moustache. ‘No, I think we might safely trust our American friend to bring Polly round. You will, however, tread cautiously in future, will you not?'

‘Very cautiously,' Kenny promised. ‘Will you contact me again?'

‘Absolutely.' Marzipan leaned over and opened the passenger door. ‘Just as soon as your dear sister-in-law decides which way to jump.'

*   *   *

Christy hadn't touched a camera in weeks. Although he was still being paid by Brockway's, personally and professionally he was in limbo.

Polly had gone shopping. He was alone in the house when the packet of photographs arrived from Brockway's. He opened the packet and spread the prints on a clean sheet of newspaper on the kitchen table.

Somebody had already weeded out the duds. Christy wondered if some idiot in editorial thought that shots of pigs and chickens, small children and pretty ladies constituted treason and that Blackstone Farm was really a school for spies.

Ron looked up at him from the table top, wet-snouted, long-lashed, ears cocked, more quizzical than belligerent.

The print had been roughly trimmed but he would tidy it up with scissors to improve the composition and make the pig look even more cute. There was nothing he could do to make Angus look cute. Leaning against the fence, elbows hooked around the rail, Angus looked as tough and sour as a Texas ranch-hand.

Christy gave a little nod of self-approval. He had done the kid proud and the kid had done him proud. The photo would never make the cover of the
Saturday Evening Post
but it caught Babs's son to perfection.

Polly too: Polly in her long black velvety overcoat and Russian-style hat stood behind Angus against the grainy-grey wall of the cottage, a hand on the boy's shoulder. She seemed to be looking straight into the lens but Christy knew she was looking at him, watching him with a degree of admiration that nothing he'd been doing at the time had justified.

Somewhere up in Glasgow he would find a photographic shop that stocked mounts. He gathered up the prints, slipped them into the big cardboard-backed envelope, went upstairs to collect his jacket and scarf, and a full hour before Polly arrived home, set out on the bus for the city.

*   *   *

‘Where have you been?' Polly snapped. ‘Why didn't you tell me you intended going out?'

‘Something came up unexpectedly.' Christy said. ‘It's a surprise.'

‘Oh, is it?' said Polly. ‘Have you been to see Babs?'

‘Babs?' Christy said. ‘Why would I go see Babs?'

‘To keep your options open.'

‘Polly, what's gotten into you?' he said. ‘I went up town, that's all.'

‘You didn't take your cameras.'

‘Nope, I didn't take my cameras.'

‘If you're tired of me, just say so.'

‘Polly!'

She was seated at the kitchen table, groceries spread about her in little paper packets. She had flung her overcoat across a chair and her hat and scarf lay on the floor. When he tried to kiss her she drew away, haughty and irritable, like his ma on those rare occasions when his old man had staggered home drunk. Christy propped the big parcel by the chair, placed a hand on her shoulder and, refusing to accept her rejection, kissed her ear.