Goodmans of Glassford Street Read online

  As it turned out, even the security guards that she had trusted were not above suspicion. One man recently, a very popular and nice man, had really surprised her. His wife was expecting and all the staff in the ground floor departments who knew him best were busy knitting baby clothes. Then on one occasion she had to do a spot check of staff lockers – she had a master key and if goods were going missing it could be part of the procedure to check the lockers. Gents’ suits and trousers had been going missing and when she did her search, she found a pair of trousers with the tags and tickets still attached in the security guard’s locker. So she took the security guard to the manager’s office and he was questioned.

  ‘Oh no, Miss Eden, you’ve got it all wrong,’ he insisted. ‘My wife bought those trousers in the Trongate store and they forgot to take the tags off.’

  And he stuck to his story. The police were called and the security guard stuck to his story. He was suspended right away and the security company were alerted. He went to court and still said the same. His wife went into the witness box and said she’d bought the trousers, as he’d said, and they hadn’t taken the tags off.

  Miss Eden might have believed him, indeed wanted to believe him. She found it an ordeal having to stand face to face in court with a man she trusted and liked and felt sorry for. She couldn’t believe what he was doing. But someone had seen him selling suits. He knew the days she was in the store and nothing was going missing on those days. He also knew that, if she wasn’t in by eleven or twelve, she wasn’t coming in that day.

  He was duly fined – quite heavily – but wasn’t sent to prison because he had no previous convictions. However, he lost his job with the security company and gave himself a bad name. How stupid, Miss Eden thought.

  She had spent most of the day in court and then had to write up reports and answer phone calls in her office. As a result, she didn’t get a chance to do anything about Mr McKay. She knew without doubt, however, that if she didn’t do something very soon, he would end up getting the sack. Despite Mrs Goodman’s recent preoccupation with other matters, she was bound to notice Mr McKay any time now and issue him with a written warning.

  Goodmans was an excellent place to work, if you were a good worker. The wages couldn’t be bettered anywhere. At Christmas, every member of staff, from the youngest junior in the departments and the apprentice joiner and electrician in the basement, received a generous gift. If buyers got married, they were given a wedding present. If a (married) member of staff became pregnant, they were told to choose whatever they wanted or needed from the children’s department. If they worked late, they were offered a free meal in the canteen. There was a rest room with a first-aider or nurse in attendance. In other words, the staff had every facility. But if they stepped out of line in any way and were not fulfilling their responsibilities or obligations, Mrs Goodman would be ruthless.

  By the time Miss Eden had finished her work, Mr McKay had gone. An assistant manager was left to lock up. This was not supposed to happen. It was, and always had been, Mr McKay’s responsibility to lock up. It would have been different if he had been off sick. But he had been in the store all day and had been on duty.

  She knew where he would be. Along Argyle Street with the group of tramps, drinking himself unconscious. There was no use confronting him in front of the others. She had to catch him before he got there – either earlier in the shop or as soon as he left the shop and before he had an opportunity to change. She would just have to make time to do that tomorrow.

  She discarded the wig and baggy cardigan she had been wearing and changed into her neat navy trouser suit and white blouse. She left the store and walked up Glassford Street. Standing at the traffic lights in Ingram Street, she looked over at the Italian Centre. It was a block of luxury flats, offices and haute couture shops, cafés and classical and contemporary public art. She liked Sandy Stoddart’s bronzes of Mercury and Italia sitting on top of the wall heads. Further along was the imposing Hutchesons’ Hall or Hospital. It now belonged to the National Trust for Scotland and attractive, arty things could be bought there. It had been designed originally by two philanthropic brothers to give shelter to the destitute men of Glasgow.

  Thinking of destitute men reminded her, perhaps incongruously, of Mr McKay. He wasn’t really destitute. He had, she believed, a very respectable villa in Bishopbriggs.

  She crossed the road and walked along towards George Square. It was crowded with people strolling around chomping on burgers and fish and chip suppers from one stall and candy floss from another. Others were standing watching the skaters on the specially made ice rink. Long sparkling decorations hung from every lamp-post. Long strands of red lights hung from the high pillar on top of which stood Sir Walter Scott. The whole place had become a temporary fairyland.

  Miss Eden loitered for a time to enjoy the antics of the skaters. Some were showing off by swooping and swirling. Others were staggering this way and that before bumping down to a sitting position and laughing helplessly.

  She enjoyed watching skating but had never had any inclination to take part. She didn’t like to feel helpless in any circumstances. She always liked to feel strong and in charge. Last year, coming home late from the staff Christmas party at Goodmans, she had been set upon by a couple of youths who had tried to rob her. Before they knew what had happened to them, they were flying through the air and crashing to the ground. As soon as they managed to pick themselves up, they ran.

  She was glad that tonight was her karate night. It passed an enjoyable couple of hours. She preferred to be active rather than just sit gawping at the television. She read quite a lot of, course, usually in bed before settling down to sleep.

  Eventually she made it through the noisy crowds to Queen Street Station and caught the train to Springburn. As the train rocked her gently from side to side, her thoughts turned to Mr McKay again. No doubt he would already be downing Buckfast wine in the dark, dingy cul-de-sac with the group of flea-ridden tramps. It was really dreadful that a smart, efficient, perfectly normal man like Mr McKay should degenerate into such a state, in such a place, and with people like that.

  Come what may, tomorrow, she determined, she would do something about Mr McKay. Mr McKay would be tomorrow’s priority even if Goodmans was invaded by hordes of shoplifters.

  Mr McKay looked worse than ever when she saw him the next morning and she prayed that Mrs Goodman wouldn’t see him. If she did come into the store and held the staff meeting, there would be the usual big crowd packed in her office and hopefully Mr McKay would keep to the back out of sight.

  In the event, there was a meeting and Miss Eden noticed him slipping into a seat at the back where Mrs Goodman would probably not be able to spot him. She watched him leave the meeting and return to his office. Then he went downstairs to do his usual round of the departments. She slipped into his office, confiscated the plastic shopping bag and took it away to hide it in her own office. That should stop him in his tracks. But she would have to do more than that. He might be so desperate and far gone that he would go drinking with the tramps in his smart suit. Or go drinking anywhere with anyone. It looked as if he was fast becoming an alcoholic.

  The day was quite busy. A suspicious-looking woman came in with a big bag and Miss Eden had to watch her and follow her around all the departments, never taking her eyes off her for a second. She saw the woman eventually slip a designer label jacket into the bag. She whispered a warning to the security guard into her mobile phone as she followed the woman towards the front door. Once outside, she stopped the woman and, as expected, she turned nasty and delved into her handbag for a pepperpot. Before she could try to blind Miss Eden with the pepper, however, Miss Eden delivered one of her karate chops. The woman screamed out with pain and fury. It was quite a struggle to get her upstairs to the manager’s office. Miss Eden didn’t want to risk doing any karate in full view of other customers in the store, so she and the security guard held the woman and helped her along with as little
force as they could manage.

  Then there was the wait for the police. Even during this time, the woman had to be restrained.

  Mr McKay looked grey-faced and on the verge of collapse. By this time, of course, the poor man would have discovered that his bag containing his tramp clothes had gone. He would be feeling confused and anxious. Probably desperate too. He’d be thinking, ‘Where has it gone?’ and ‘What am I going to do?’ After the police had come and gone and the security guard had returned to his post, Miss Eden wondered if this was her chance to speak to Mr McKay and make some sort of move, but decided it would be better to wait until nearer the end of the working day. Perhaps the moment he had locked up, she’d catch him. Yes, best to get the day’s work over and both of them safely out of the store. No danger then of being interrupted or found out by any other person in the shop. After all, she did not know how Mr McKay would react. He just wasn’t his normal self at all these days.

  And so she waited outside but Mr McKay never emerged. She raced round to the back entrance but it too was locked and there was no sign of anyone in the lane. She couldn’t understand it. For a time, she searched the nearby streets. She even went to where the tramps and Mr McKay had sat drinking together. The tramps were huddled under pieces of cardboard but there was no sign of Mr McKay. Defeated, she eventually pushed her way through the crowds towards the station. She was no longer interested in watching the skaters or admiring the decorations. She kept thinking about what had happened to Mr McKay. The only answer she could come up with was that he had remained in the store. It seemed ridiculous. Unless, of course, the poor man just couldn’t face going home alone to an empty house. He was obviously still devastated over the loss of his wife.

  This was a truly terrible state to get into. She’d talk to him tomorrow, first thing. Even if she couldn’t catch him on his own, she would ask to speak to him alone in his office. She would say it was urgent and would not take any excuses from him that he was too busy.

  Not one more day would pass without her saving him from himself.

  23

  ‘For goodness’ sake,’ Abi burst out irritably, ‘a restaurant? What next?’

  ‘Why not?’ Douglas Benson asked. ‘Every other store has one. Even comparatively small bookshops. I was up in what was Ottakar’s bookshop the other day …’

  ‘What on earth were you doing there? We have a perfectly good and well-stocked book department here.’

  ‘I was there for research purposes. Waterstone’s have bought Ottakar’s and it was obviously a very successful takeover. The place was extremely busy.’

  ‘So is our book department.’

  ‘But they have a café with three very attractive girls serving behind the counter, and seats and tables and comfortable armchairs and sofas where people can relax with a cup of coffee and browse through the books. It gives a perfect atmosphere and the girls are very attractive. They offer to carry your tray over to the table and ask you if you’ve enjoyed the coffee or tea or whatever snack you’ve had to eat.’

  He was really getting carried away with enthusiasm.

  ‘The bigger Waterstone’s in Sauchiehall Street has a café as well. So does Borders – all very successful businesses.’

  Abi sighed. ‘In the first place, we are not a bookshop. In the second place, Goodmans is already a very successful business.’

  ‘Yes, but we could be so much more successful. We are so behind the times. It is crazy not to want to expand and modernise and grow …’

  Abi stopped listening to him. She had heard it all before. But a restaurant of all things! Where on earth would they put it, in the first place? By cutting every other department? She dreaded the thought of what Douglas Benson would do to Goodmans if he had the chance. If only John would take it over. She had made a will leaving everything to him, of course. Perhaps he would employ a suitable managing director or someone who would run the place and keep the old traditions going. Thinking of John made her worries increase. Apparently, the police weren’t all that impressed with what John had told them about Julie’s ex. Why hadn’t he told them before?, they’d asked. She understood why he hadn’t, even if the police didn’t. John was a very busy man. He had much on his mind. He was recklessly controversial and as a result made a lot of enemies. In other words, he had more to think about than his secretary’s ex-boyfriend. She wished with all her heart that John would get out of politics and just come to support her in the store. She could retire then if she knew it was in safe hands. She had been getting so stressed recently, and that was unusual for her. She had been taking more time off than usual too, what with the trip to South Castle-on-Sea and her days in Edinburgh and the times she was persuaded to leave the store during the day before closing time to be with the children. Douglas Benson must be in his element, thinking that he was well on his way to taking over completely.

  Remembering South Castle-on-Sea relit the fire of her anger against Mr Webster. To think how lucky he was, with a loving wife and family, and yet he was cheating on them. She had an urge to sack Miss Webster, his daughter, just to spite him, but struggled against the urge. It wasn’t his daughter’s fault. She was a good worker and had done nothing wrong. It was Mr Webster who deserved to be sacked. She wished she could sack him but knew he was far too valuable an employee. Anyway, sacking from Goodmans wouldn’t bother him. He would immediately be snapped up by another firm.

  She wondered if she should go to see John again, even just for a chat and to have a bite of lunch. He was always pleased to see her and eager to have a talk with her. He was obviously upset and worried at the moment about the murder. It must be very difficult and stressful for him having to cope with that on top of all his parliamentary work.

  ‘Well,’ she suddenly heard Douglas Benson say, ‘if that’s all at the moment, we’ll leave it that I’ll enquire further into the possibilities and financial implications for the inclusion of a restaurant or café and report back in due course. Meeting closed.’

  Bloody cheek of him! But she couldn’t be bothered dragging the meeting out any further. She had too many other things on her mind. As soon as the room cleared, she picked up the phone and dialled John’s number. There was no answer. Even if he was in the chamber or elsewhere at a committee meeting or some other engagement, his secretary usually answered and told her where he was. Of course, poor Julie was no longer able to do that. But had he not yet found a replacement?

  Surely nothing else had happened? He couldn’t be at the police station, could he? Whether or not she could contact him and tell him she was coming didn’t matter now. She was so worried, she had to leave for Edinburgh right away.

  There was a small space for a taxi rank outside Goodmans – just enough for two taxis. Fortunately there was one taxi waiting there and she climbed in and asked the driver to take her to Queen Street Station. The driver didn’t look too pleased but said nothing. She realised Queen Street wasn’t much of a job for him and normally she would have walked there. Today, however, she felt so acutely worried and impatient, she didn’t feel like struggling through the crowded streets and packed George Square.

  The huge Christmas tree and all the lights reminded her of the Christmas family gatherings there used to be in the villa in Huntershill. How wonderful it had been when Tom was alive! The house was a riot of coloured decorations that Tom had spent hours getting ready for the family celebrations. She had always helped him decorate the Christmas tree and they both took great pleasure in wrapping the Christmas gifts.

  Now, she just took the family out to a restaurant for lunch. It wasn’t the same. In the evening, John usually returned to Edinburgh to have a party in his flat or attend a party in the house of one of the other MSPs. The Bensons usually entertained friends in the evening. They always invited her and, to prevent John worrying, she pretended to go there. But she knew Douglas Benson didn’t really want her and she always made some last-minute excuse.

  On Christmas Eve, though, she always had some fun when sh
e visited the children. But no matter what she did or didn’t do, Christmas was no longer a happy family time for her. New Year was even worse. She told John and the Bensons that she would be going away for a few days. Sometimes she did go away to some hotel or other. A lot of people spent Hogmanay (New Year’s Eve) and New Year’s Day and the day after in a hotel. It didn’t matter what she did, however. It was still a painful and unhappy time. And there was always the silent, empty house to come back to.

  She did not have to wait for a train and boarded one just minutes before it moved off.

  Most evenings, whether it was during the year or at holiday time, she just watched television. If there was no programme that she liked, she would put on one of her CSI: Miami DVDs and take some pleasure and comfort from Horatio, the way he bent forward, head leaning to one side as he listened with concentration, sympathy and understanding to whoever was in need of sympathy and understanding. Often he would say to a helpless child or a woman who had been hurt or frightened, ‘No one is going to hurt you ever again. Trust me.’

  Usually the train seemed to fly towards Edinburgh, but today it felt as if it would never get there. She bought a cup of tea from the trolley and a packet of biscuits. She hadn’t bothered to make any breakfast before leaving for the store in the morning. She tried John’s number on her mobile. Still no reply.

  She decided to call at his flat first just in case he was there. There was no answer to her insistent ringing of his doorbell. She walked from there down the Royal Mile to the Parliament. At the counter where visitors booked tours or made enquiries, she asked the girl to contact John’s office and tell him that his mother was here.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ the girl said eventually, ‘he appears to be visiting his constituency today. Would you like to leave a message? He’ll probably be speaking at meetings there and when he’s doing that, he turns off his mobile.’