‘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.