The Midnight Eye Files Collection Read online

  I walked quickly until I reached the Botanic Gardens at the north end of the road, and took the path down to the side of the Kelvin where I stopped and lit a cigarette. I didn’t tarry long, though. Liz and I had spent a lot of time in this area, and I’d done enough wallowing for one day. I followed the footpath up into Maryhill.

  As I climbed away from Byres Road, the houses became more rundown, and the shops started to sport graffiti and metal shutters. Rubbish lay exposed in thick black plastic bags that had been ripped by dogs, seagulls, desperate drunks and drug-addicts. The faces of the people were more pinched, more pockmarked, and young people loitered in packs, daring me to look at them the wrong way.

  Yet even here reminded me of Liz. Where I had seen losers and down-and-outs, she had seen poverty and the downside of the class system. She had nearly brought me round to her way of thinking, but her death had brought my education to a halt.

  There, I’d done it. I’d thought about her again.

  Maybe wee Jimmy Allen would improve my mood.

  I had lied yesterday when I told Mrs. Dunlop about the phone book. Jimmy and I had been playing a game for nearly five years now.

  When I started out, it was as ‘Adam’s Detective Services’. Jimmy was running a ‘cat and wife finding’ service called ‘Allen’s Detective Services’. He rang me up to complain that I’d usurped his position in the phone book. We’d met for a drink, got on well together, then I found he had become ‘Adams Detection Services’. I countered with ‘Adams Detection Outsourcing’, and we were off and running.

  I’d given up early last year at “Adams Detective Agency”, but Jimmy had got the bug. He got fed up explaining to everybody why he was using the name ‘Adams’, and started working his way down the ‘Acs’, then the ‘Abs’. I noticed as I approached his ‘office’—the end block of a Victorian warehouse—that ‘Abracadabra—we can do magic’ had already been badly painted out and replaced by ‘Abacus Detection—let us add it up for you’. I rang his doorbell and waited while he closed down his extensive security systems. Eventually the door opened and his small head poked through as small a gap as he would allow.

  “Oh. It’s you, Derek. I wondered when I’d see you.”

  He opened the door to let me in. By the time I had locked the door behind me and turned round he was already halfway across the barn towards his ‘office’.

  Jimmy wasn’t a private detective, or rather, he wasn’t just a private detective. He was an antique dealer, a pawnbroker on the grand scale, and, rumor had it, a part-time fence for anything that wouldn’t draw too much heat. He had been doing them all for more than fifty years, and his ‘collection’ had never stopped growing.

  Above me in the rafters hung musical instruments, stuffed animals, shop mannequins and fur coats. The floor area was a series of aisles: white goods and televisions to my left, books on shelves along all four walls, modern sofas and chairs to my right, and antique furniture ahead of me. I also knew that there was a hidden cellar where Jimmy kept gold watches, rings, gemstones, and enough diamonds to keep an Amsterdam jeweler happy for decades.

  Jimmy himself looked even more bent than usual. A chronic back problem had got worse over the last few years so that he now seemed to be permanently staring at the floor. He must have been in his late eighties, but he hadn’t slowed down any. In fact, if you believed him, he still participated in a full and very imaginative sex life.

  If that was true, it had more to do with his chat and his easy way of making you laugh than his physical attributes. He was about five-two, and seven stone soaking wet. He had a hooked nose of which an eagle would have been proud, a liver-spotted scalp that resembled a map of the Hebridean Islands, and a grey goatee beard that looked like each hair had been glued on individually. He reminded me of a gnome from one of the Old Norse tales, or a leprechaun that had gone to seed. I laughed at that thought, and the sound echoed around me, causing sympathetic noises from the vibrating instruments overhead.

  “What’s so funny?” Jimmy called back at me.

  “This “ I said, waving my arms around. “Your cavern of delights. It’s like something from a fairy tale.”

  “Grimm or Anderson?” he asked.

  “Oh, Grimm “ I said. “Definitely Grimm.”

  He laughed this time.

  “Rumpelstiltskin?” he said.

  “Yep. Where’s all the spun gold?”

  “Wouldn’t you like to know “ he said, and laughed again. I don’t think I’ve ever known a man who laughed quite so much.

  “Are you coming or not?” he called out at me. “Or will we just stand here and shout at each other a bit?”

  As I walked towards his office I noticed that he had come into possession of some new items. A French bedroom set—three-door wardrobe and two huge tallboys—dominated the left side of the aisle. They looked expensive.

  Jimmy saw me looking.

  “Got it from a City councilor. On his uppers. Needed some quick cash. Something to do with his wife, a prostitute, and a newspaper. I gave him a couple of grand.” He cackled that high, almost girl-like giggle that I had come to know so well.

  “Anybody I know?” I asked.

  “No “ he said. “But you will...you will.”

  “If you get any more stuff you’re going to have to get a bigger place “ I said.

  “No, they’ll only take me out of here in a coffin “ he said, and laughed. But this time the echo sounded flat and hollow.

  “I’ve got someone coming to take away all the washing machines “ he said, “Some kind of artist—he says he’s going to make a giant model of a housewife out of them. Says it’ll win him the Turner prize.”

  “The council will probably buy it, and put it on a hill somewhere “ I said. “I can see it now—‘The cleaner of the north’ or some such shit.”

  The old man cackled again.

  “I’ve bought some Fifties furniture to replace them. And I’ve managed to get something for you as well “ he said. “Something special.”

  I followed him through the furniture to a cleared square in the center of the warehouse. There were two armchairs, a desk, a fridge, an early Twentieth Century shop till, and a series of large ledgers alongside a pile of other books on the desk. This was Jimmy’s ‘office’. High-tech, it wasn’t, but I’d never known the old man to forget a deal, or, more importantly, the price of one.

  “Before you tell me why you’ve come “ he said. “Have a look at this and I’ll get you a beer.”

  He handed me a book and went to the fridge.

  It was a first edition Chandler, a first American edition, of The Little Sister. It was in near perfect condition, even the dust-wrapper, and my heart started pounding faster even before I opened it.

  “You wee bastard “ I said to him as he came back and handed me a very cold can. “You know I’ll never afford it. Just showing it to me should be a criminal offence.”

  He cackled again.

  “It’s only three grand “ he said. “Working for Artie Dunlop, you should be getting that much a day.”

  I dropped the book in my lap, and I think my jaw fell as well. Jimmy saw my surprise.

  “You didn’t know who she was?” he asked, and there was genuine astonishment in his eyes. “I spotted her right off, and gave her a body-swerve. I don’t want to be getting involved with the likes of him.”

  I had been blinded, by her, by the money, by the case. Now I’d somehow got embroiled with one of the shadiest, most feared, members of the Glasgow underworld. I took a long gulp of the beer, wishing it were something stronger, and shakily lit a cigarette.

  “Aye “ Jimmy said, shaking his head. “That Dunlop. Dodgy Art and Antiques a specialty, along with disappearing enemies whose bodies are never found. I hope she’s worth it—you always did think more with your balls than your brain.”

  Artie Dunlop was something of a legend in Glasgow. The police had never pinned anything on him; he had no other known associates, no ‘gang’. Bu
t somehow, anybody who ever crossed him disappeared, permanently. Artwork and antique thefts of very high value were attributed to him, but there were never any clues linking him to crime scenes. He was feared by even the hardest men in this hard town.

  “Christ “ I said, and managed a hollow laugh. “I only asked her for two-fifty a day.”

  Jimmy laughed so long and hard that he brought on a coughing fit.

  “Oh boy “ he said when he’d finally recovered. “I knew you were naive, but I didn’t think you were stupid as well. What’s she got you doing?”

  “Looking for one of the dodgy antiques “ I said, sheepishly. “Somebody else was stupid, and burgled the Dunlop’s house. They’ve lost a trinket. A million pound trinket.”

  I took the picture from my pocket and showed it to him. He held it for all of two seconds before giving it back to me.

  “I’d want it to stay missing. Ugly looking thing, isn’t it?”

  I agreed.

  “No cops?” Jimmy said, and answered it for himself. “No. Dunlop keeps away from them. And you came to see if anybody tried to offload it on me?”

  I nodded.

  “No “ he said. “Way out of my league.”

  He answered my next question before I asked it.

  “I’d try Tommy McIntyre out at Anniesland Cross, or one of the big antique dealers in town. Macey and Johnsons, or Durban and Lamberts. One of them will probably have been approached by now. Unless it was a ‘to-order’ job. In that case, you’ve got almost no chance, it’ll be in a collectors hands already.”

  “Aye. I know that “ I said. “But I’m getting paid to try.”

  “Good luck.” he said. “But I’ll bet you a grand that it has gone already.”

  “You’ve got a deal “ I said. “I might only be on two-fifty a day, but the chance to take a grand off you can’t be turned down.”

  I chugged the last of my beer and put my cigarette in an ashtray that would have cost a couple of days of my current fee.

  “If you hear anything, you’ll let me know?” I asked.

  “Only if you get me a picture of Mrs. Dunlop in her birthday suit “ he said, and cackled again.

  “You’ll have to get in the queue for that one “ I said, and when he laughed, I joined him.

  I gave him back the Chandler.

  “Can you hold this for me? I might be able to afford it in a couple of years.”

  He shook his head.

  “I’ve got somebody in mind for it “ he said, and gave me a sly smile. “Now away you go and earn your fee. Maybe, if you find what you’re looking for, she’ll give you a bonus.”

  “Aye, right “ I said. “And maybe I’ll get that picture of Mrs. Dunlop for you. The chances are about the same.”

  As I left I heard his deadbolts and locks fall into place behind me.

  “Don’t lock yourself in, old man “ I shouted.

  “Don’t worry about me “ a muffled voice shouted. “I’ve got five crates of whisky in the cellar.”

  His high cackle followed me back down the road.

  “Hey, mister “ a voice said to my left. “Have you got any spare change?”

  I’d stopped just outside the football ground. It was training day for the team and a handful of youngsters hung around, waiting to see the players enter.

  “Come on, mister. Give us a pound.”

  I’d been trying to ignore them, but three kids, none older than twelve, now stood in front of me, trying to look menacing.

  “And what do you want the money for?” I asked.

  “Fags “ one of them said.

  “A bottle of cider “ another said.

  “How about you?” I said to the third one. He was all of four feet tall, but he already had the swagger and cock-sure manner of someone much older.

  “I’m going to go down the docks and get a blow job “ he said.

  He’d made me laugh; I’ll give him that. I gave him a pound.

  “Here “ I said. “But don’t forget to ask for your change.”

  They were already arguing how to split the money as they turned away from me.

  I decided to take Jimmy’s advice and headed for the town center. There were several antique dealers besides the two he’d mentioned, and I could rattle a few cages by showing the photo around. It looked like it might rain again soon so I caught the bus. I sat upstairs where I could sneak another cigarette. It was just my luck that I got the “nutter”. I seemed to attract them.

  “Hey. Give us a fag “ a voice said. I looked up into a face that hadn’t been washed for at least a week.

  “Come on, man “ he said. “Just one tab. And a light. That’ll do. Oh, and maybe a couple of quid for a wee drink if you can spare it.”

  He sat down beside me, forcing me up against the window. Apart from not shaving, he smelled like washing was just a distant memory.

  I let out a big sigh and gave him a cigarette. He took it and put it behind his ear.

  “That one’s for later. Can I have one for now?” he said. He smiled, and there were more gaps than there were teeth.

  “You’ve got a brass neck, I’ll give you that “ I said, giving him another. We smoked in silence for a bit before he replied.

  “Aye. Pity it’s not a brass todger, eh? Sorry missus “ he said as a woman two seats in front turned and tutted.

  Suddenly he burst into song, a pitch-perfect rendering of ‘A Wandering Minstrel, I’ from the Mikado. He was impressed that I could fill in the bass harmonies. The woman two seats in front tutted at both of us, but I gave her my evil-twin grin and she turned away.

  “Ye ken Mr. Gilbert and Mr. Sullivan?” he said.

  “Aye, But only the Mikado, really. I was in the bass line in a production at school “ I said. “And I was only there because o’ the lassies in the soprano section.”

  He launched into ‘The Lord High Executioner’ before I could stop him.

  “That’s a fine singing voice you’ve got there “ I said when he’d finished.

  “Thank you, sir. I wiz trained well. Now about that fiver you promised me?”

  I laughed again.

  “As I said, a brass neck.”

  I reached into my jacket to get my wallet and give him some money, and the picture fell out. Before I could stop him he had bent and lifted it.

  He took one look at it, and started singing, a strange, discordant hum that sounded almost mechanical. People started to leave the bus, and I would have joined them if he didn’t have me boxed in. Beads of sweat formed on his brow, and he seemed to be straining. It looked like he was trying to stop himself singing. His right hand moved slowly over his left wrist, and before I could stop him, he burned himself with his cigarette. Slowly, deliberately, he ground the red-hot tip into his flesh until the singing faltered and stopped.

  He turned the photograph face down and handed it back to me carefully. There was no sign of pain on his face.

  “Does Mr. Dunlop know you’ve got that?” he said.

  My world suddenly lurched.

  “You know what it is?”

  “Oh, aye “ he said. “I’ve seen the original.”

  “And where would that be?” I asked, but he backed away.

  “Mr. Dunlop was good tae me “ he said. “And I dinnae ken you. Thanks for the smokes.”

  He was down the stairs and off the bus before I could stop him. When I looked out, I saw him hustling a bus queue.

  I wondered how a derelict came to be acquainted with Dunlop, but couldn’t see the connection. I put it away to think about later, got off the bus, and hit the streets.

  Macey and Johnsons was my first port of call—an antique dealers on West Regent Street. I remember walking past it many time in my student years—there was a second-hand bookshop two doors down where I had bought most of my textbooks—and sold them again when I dropped out. I’d never been inside though—it always looked too rich for my tastes.

  A small frontage opened out once you were inside to a la
rge room lined in gilded mirrors and imposing oil paintings. Small pieces of dark furniture were strategically placed around, and expensive-sounding clocks ticked away in the background.

  I wasn’t given any time to browse—maybe my jeans and trainers marked me as too poor. A sharp-suited salesman was onto me before I had gone five yards.

  He was young, younger than me, anyway, and everything about him looked too tight, from his shoes to his small, mean mouth.

  “Can I help you, sir?” he said. The way he said ‘sir’ made me dislike him immediately.

  “Which one are you?” I said.

  He looked at me blankly.

  “Sir?”

  “Macey or Johnson?”

  “I’m Edward Macey “ he said. “But the name above the door belongs to my father.”

  “Good for him “ I said.

  This time, when he spoke, he was less officious, more confrontational.

  “Can I help you?” he said again.

  “I hope so “ I said. “I recently won the lottery, and, having bought my new house, I need to furnish it.”

  He immediately became more attentive. I could see him working out his most expensive items to sell me, and how much commission he would make. I let him dream for a long second, then let him down, hard.

  “Unfortunately for you, I’ve already got all the furniture and paintings. But I am looking for some knickknacks to leave lying around.”

  His face went purple.

  “We don’t sell ‘knickknacks’ sir. We are dealers in quality furnishings.”

  “Aye “ I said, “I can see that. They’re nearly as good as the ones I’ve got already.”

  By now he was nearly apoplectic.

  “If you’re not going to buy anything, I’d like you to leave “ he said and began to usher me towards the entrance.

  “Hold on a minute “ I said. “I am in the market for a piece. A ‘quality’ piece.”

  He stopped pushing me, but I could see that he was just waiting for the next wind-up. His eyes widened when I showed him the picture.

  “This is what I’m after “ I said.

  He laughed at me.

  “Sir is joking again “ he said. “It’s been a long time missing. And if I had The Johnson Amulet, I would be telling my father where to stuff his job and retiring, not standing here in a too-tight pair of shoes listening to wastrels like you.”