Prized Possessions (35 page)

Polly returned through the close, turned right and set out for Brock Street, her heels clicking on the rain-washed pavement, a little rat-a-tat echoing from each deserted close.

She felt tight and tense yet very clear-headed, unlike the majority of citizens who were sleeping off hangovers behind closed curtains and would not surface until dusk signalled the start of a second round of revelry, not in pubs and bars tonight but in the crowded, crumpled tenements where friends and families met to eat and drink, and drink some more.

She walked fast, very fast, breathlessly fast. She covered the mile between the Calcutta Road and Brock Street in less than a quarter of an hour.

So far she was the only one of the Conways who had heard about the fire.

When they had returned from the street party at Gorbals Cross, Polly had seen Babs and the Hallop boys safely into the Hallops' house before going upstairs to bed. It had been two or half past by then but she had risen early, remarkably early, to visit the closet on the half-landing. On the stairs she had encountered Mr Gower, the Conways' neighbour; surly Mr Gower, to whom ill-tidings were meat and drink. He had told her of the fire and that two wee weans and a man named Bonnar had been smothered to death by smoke. How he had come by this weight of information in the wee small hours of New Year's Day was a mystery that he did not see fit to explain.

Polly's first impulse had been to waken her mother. But Lizzie, with Rosie cuddled beside her, was fast asleep in the kitchen bed. And Babs, much the worse for having spent most of the night imbibing beer in the Hallops' kitchen, was so stupefied that Polly could not rouse her at all. So she'd made toast and tea and smoked a cigarette and then, driven by a need to escape from Lavender Court, had dressed herself in her Sunday best and had gone out in search of more information.

She had encountered the constable at the corner of Keane Street. He had been hanging about aimlessly, trying to appear alert in the dead hours of a New Year's morning. He had been surprised to see a pretty young woman out and about so early, had answered her questions willingly and told her all he knew concerning the incident; how emergency crews from the fire station and ambulance service had turned out, how policemen from Southern Division had cleared the tenement, and how, as soon as the bodies had been removed and the building had been declared safe, all the tenants had trooped back inside and resumed their celebrations as if nothing untoward had happened.

When the constable had asked if she had known the victims Polly had shaken her head. Managing a smile of sorts, she had wished him all the best and had gone on her way down Ferrier Street into the Calcutta Road, possessed by a need to see for herself where Tommy Bonnar had been murdered before she went to Brock Street to track down Patsy Walsh.

‘Wait, Polly, just hold your horses,' Patsy said. ‘Nothin' you've told me so far indicates that Tommy was murdered. Accidents do happen.'

‘Where's the woman he lived with then?'

‘Maggie, his sister,' Patsy said. ‘God knows!'

‘Perhaps she's dead too.'

‘Nah, nah. She'll be on the randan somewhere. She'll turn up in her own good time.'

‘To find her brother an' two of her children dead an' her house boarded up?' Polly paused, scowling. ‘Perhaps it's no more than she deserves, leaving her bairns to fend for themselves on Hogmanay.'

‘Tommy was with them, wasn't he?'

‘Fat lot of good that did the poor wee mites.'

‘Are you okay, Poll?'

‘No, I am not okay. Where were you last night?'

‘Right here.'

‘With your father?'

‘No, he went to bring in Ne'erday with his sister. Hasn't come back yet.'

‘So you were on your own?'

‘Wait a bloody minute, Polly. I hope you're not suggestin' that I had anythin' to do with this?'

‘No, but I think somebody did,' said Polly.

They were alone in the Walshes' kitchen. A faded cotton curtain was still drawn over the window above the sink, though the sun had struggled out and there were planes of light on the wall above the grate and on the alcove bed which, Polly noted, was already made up. On a cork mat on the table were a single plate with egg stains upon it and a single teacup and saucer. It all looked normal, she had to admit.

Patsy was plainly not hung over. He had shaved and wore a clean turtleneck black wool sweater and black corduroy trousers. There was an air of ‘French' about him, of apache, not ruffian but robber. He conversed without any of the didactic little flourishes that she had grown used to over the weeks.

‘I've been in Tommy's place,' he said. ‘It's a tip, a dump. Beddin' an' filthy old clothes strewn all over the floor and enough grease on the walls to start the fire o' London.'

‘It didn't burn much,' Polly said. ‘Smoke killed them, not flames.'

‘I thought you said one of the wee ones was still alive.'

‘That's what the policeman told me.' Polly nodded. ‘The baby, the smallest – they put her on a breathing machine and rushed her off to the Victoria Infirmary in an ambulance.'

‘She won't be able to tell them much.'

‘Tell who?' said Polly. ‘The police?'

‘The Procurator Fiscal,' Patsy said. ‘The coppers will lay their evidence before him an' he'll conduct a fatal accident enquiry.'

‘Not a murder enquiry?' said Polly.

‘If the Procurator finds enough proof, sure, it'll be murder.'

‘Will he find proof?'

‘How the hell would I know?' Patsy said. Then, ‘Probably not.'

‘Whoever did in Tommy Bonnar was clever enough to fake an accident,' Polly said. ‘You and I both know why Tommy died last night.'

‘Come off it, Polly!' Patsy said, patience wearing thin. ‘Chances are Tommy wasn't murdered at all. He probably fell asleep with a ciggie in his mouth and set the bed on fire. Happens all the time. What with leaky gas pipes, blocked flues an' open grates those old tenements are notorious fire traps.'

‘There wasn't a fire,' Polly said again. ‘At least not much of one.'

‘What happened to the other kiddies? Last I heard there were five or six stayin' in Tommy's house.'

‘Three were found out in the street.'

Polly had been a citizen of Glasgow and a dweller in the Gorbals far too long to be surprised. It was one of the strangest of all anomalies in the working-class character that children could be so loved and so neglected.

‘What'll happen to them?' Patsy said.

‘What do you care?'

‘For God's sake, Polly, stop gettin' at me,' Patsy snapped. ‘I'd nothin' to do with Tommy's death.'

‘You helped,' Polly said.

‘Because of the thing at the warehouse, you mean?'

‘You thought you'd got away with it, didn't you?'

‘I thought nothin' of the kind,' said Patsy.

‘If Dominic Manone had one man and two children murdered in cold blood what makes you think he'll balk at having you killed too?'

‘That isn't the way the system works, Polly.'

‘The system!' She got to her feet. ‘What system, what bloody system?'

‘At least
you're
not in any danger from Manone.'

‘I'm not worried about me. I'm worried about you,' Polly said. ‘As for your bloody system – that's nothing but a myth. You might kid yourself that there are rules, some sort of order to it all, but there isn't. The damned “system” didn't choke Tommy Bonnar and those poor wee kiddies. Some guy went in there and did it. I'd like to know who it was and why.'

‘Easy, easy.' Patsy rose. ‘No need to get so het up.'

He tried to put his arms about her. She would have none of it. She refused to have her rage demeaned, to be treated as if she were nothing but a ranting, hysterical female. If justice had been meted out to Tommy Bonnar then it was false justice, crude male justice, not a fact of nature or an act of God. Anger drained colour from her cheeks. She was as pale as milk, pursed lips pale too.

‘You don't care, do you?' she said. ‘You're just as hopeless as all the rest of them. Hopeless in every sense of the word.'

‘Something went wrong, Polly, that's all.'

‘Tell that to Tommy Bonnar's kiddies.'

‘What can I do about it now?'

‘Get yourself out of here.'

‘With what? I haven't any—'

‘Money?' Polly said. ‘I told you, I can get you money. How much? Tell me again, how much?'

‘I won't take Manone's money.'

‘It isn't Manone's money. It's
my
money. How much, Patsy?' Polly said. ‘What will it cost to get you out of here?'

‘Like I said, a hundred and fifty would do nicely.'

‘So,' Polly said, ‘if I give you a hundred and fifty pounds you'll promise to clear out of Glasgow.'

‘Are you doin' this because of Tommy, because of O'Hara, or because you want rid of me?' Patsy said.

‘Because I want rid of you.'

‘Yeah,' he said. ‘Right.'

She had told him the truth – and he hadn't believed her. He could not imagine that she would pay him to leave, that she was capable of purchasing her freedom from him. For all his supposed depth of character and claims to understand the world, he was still too much the male to perceive that she meant exactly what she said, that kissing, cuddling and sexual rehearsal had not been enough to deceive her.

‘Sunday night,' Polly said. ‘I'll bring it to you on Sunday night.'

‘Hey, you're serious, aren't you?'

‘Perfectly serious,' Polly said. ‘I'll give you the money if you promise to steer clear of Glasgow until it's safe to come back.'

‘When will that be?' he said.

‘I've no idea,' said Polly.

He stared at her, unsure just what she expected in return. He wondered if the Italian was behind her offer, if the Italian had been behind everything right from the start, the Italian or the Italian's money or the Italian's pride. He wondered if he should take Polly Conway instead of the money, or if there was some clever way to play it so that he might wind up with everything, Polly
and
the money
and
revenge, all wrapped up in one neat big ball.

Even if the Italian
was
paying, it was too good an opportunity to turn down. He'd been more spooked than he cared to admit by news of Tommy Bonnar's death. He doubted if Dominic Manone would endorse a plan that left the matter so unresolved, particularly if the point of killing Tommy had been to satisfy pride and reassert authority.

And the kiddies – he tried not to think about the kiddies.

‘Okay,' he told her.

‘You promise?'

‘I promise.'

‘Where will you go? Paris again?'

‘Yeah, Paris,' Patsy said. ‘Why don't you come with me?'

And Polly, shaking her head, said, ‘No.'

‘Why not?'

‘Because my life's here.'

‘An' mine isn't?'

‘No,' Polly said. ‘Yours isn't.'

*   *   *

At Guido's insistence the Manones had brought in the year some forty miles down the coast from Glasgow.

For three or four years now Alberto Pirollo had invited them to a party in the Promenade Café and each year Dominic had found a polite reason to refuse. This year, however, Uncle Guido had put pressure on him to show his face at Pirollo's New Year celebration, for the Manones were co-investors in the Promenade and, slump or not, the big new café-restaurant that overlooked the Firth of Clyde was proving to be a money-spinner.

In addition, Pirollo had his eye on two other sites in Ayrshire resorts where cafés on the grand scale might do well and he was keen to involve the Manones at an early stage in the planning. Dominic also knew that Guido had been sleeping on and off with Alberto's younger sister who was – theoretically – married to an accountant of the non-Italian variety, and that she, the sister, had been putting pressure on Guido too.

Dominic was surprised, therefore, when Aunt Teresa was loaded into the Alfa, along with travelling rugs, overnight bags and a selection of expensive New Year gifts for Alberto and his family and Guido drove all three of them down the coastal road into Ayrshire.

Dinner and the dance that followed it were very lavish. Pirollo and his family proved to be genial hosts. Sixty people, almost all Italians, welcomed in the New Year in the reception area that backed the restaurant and Dominic danced with seven or eight pretty girls, including one of Pirollo's daughters whom the indefatigable Aunt Teresa kept pushing in his direction. Dominic wasn't interested in Lina Pirollo, though she was modest and young, as Scottish as he was, and pretty too in a dainty sort of way. He was polite and friendly towards her, however, for he had received a cable from his father telling him to enquire further about Pirollo's expansion plans and not to antagonise the family, something that Dominic had no intention of doing anyway. About half past three o'clock Guido, Teresa and he retired to the rooms they had booked in the Isle of Arran Hotel, one of the best on the coast, and went to sleep.

Dominic was up and dressed by nine. He walked from the hotel to the Promenade via the back streets and enjoyed a private breakfast with Alberto and his eldest son – another Guido – at a table in the bay window. Wintry grey cloud covered the islands and the sea, alas, and the window was speckled with rain. Dominic concentrated on the plans that Pirollo had brought with him, together with a rough estimate of what Dominic's involvement might be and what it would yield in profit. It was not a morning for definite decisions, though, and Alberto and his son were content to put their propositions before Dominic and learn that he was interested in principle.

They drank strong coffee, smoked and talked until almost one when Uncle Guido brought the Alfa prowling along the Promenade Road from the back of the Isle of Arran. Dominic shook hands with the Pirollos, hugged them, thanked them and promised to be in touch. Then he went down the carpeted stairs and out of the big front door of the restaurant.