Goodmans of Glassford Street Read online

  The bins were emptied once a week and the bins were put out in the back lane the night before the bin men came. They came early in the morning, after he arrived. He started work before eight o’clock and he always heard the arrival of the bin lorry around eight-thirty.

  On this occasion, after all the staff had left, he locked up but instead of leaving from the front door, he left by the back. He had often done this before when going to the bank. It was one of a variety of ways and times that was part of his safety plan. The bins were sitting out in the lane, ready for the arrival of the bin men next morning. He placed the caseful of money into one of the bins. Carefully he covered it with some wood shavings and discarded sandwiches. Then he walked some way along the lane and drew a deep breath to gather every vestige of courage he had, before crashing his brow against the store wall. Blood poured down his face but he managed to stem it with a large handkerchief he had ready. Then, staggering slightly, he forced himself along the lane until he emerged at the other end and walked rather unsteadily along the road towards the bank.

  It was quite a distance away but thankfully the streets were not busy. Most people who worked in the area were on their way home. Keeping his head down and the handkerchief against his brow, he eventually hailed a taxi and asked to be taken to the nearest hospital. There, at casualty, he told them he had been attacked outside the bank by two men and the money had been stolen. He asked them to call the police.

  After they had done various tests and put a dressing and bandage on his head, he was interviewed by the police before being taken home.

  The bank was quite a distance from the lane and so he was confident that the police would not see the need to search or make enquiries there. Their attention would be in the area around the bank, he felt sure. Once he’d retrieved the money early in the morning, before the bin men or anyone else arrived, his plan would be complete. The now urgent necessity to pay the money had given him the desperation he needed to carry out such a plan. But he wanted to get rid of the money right away so that Jenny would be safe and be sure of getting the full course of treatment. He had told her he had been saving and had also received a bonus from work and at last had enough to cover the treatment.

  He lay on his bed, feeling lonely without her. His head throbbed painfully. At the same time, he felt thankful and relieved that he’d managed to gather enough courage to carry out the plan. Perhaps one day he would be able, somehow, to pay the money back. It was a terrible thing to cheat the store, and therefore to cheat Mrs Goodman. But he’d had no choice. It had to be done.

  After a restless night, he got up earlier than usual and hurried to the store. There he wasted no time in going to the bin to retrieve the money.

  It wasn’t there.

  He was so shocked he couldn’t move at first. Then he scrabbled among the sandwiches and paper and wood shavings. Still nothing. He tried the other bins in case he’d made a mistake about which bin he’d put the money in. But he knew he had not made a mistake. He was sweating now and trembling. He couldn’t understand it. The only thought that came to him was that some tramp must have come looking for food or something out of the bins. He should have thought of that, but never, in all his years at the store, had he seen or heard of any tramp in the area. Could it be that the police had searched here after all and they had found the money? But it couldn’t have been that. They would have let him know immediately.

  Shock, fear, tears of disappointment and disbelief turned to fury. Whoever had done this – he’d find them and kill them. The money could have saved Jenny’s life. The doctor had warned him right from the start that she only had a few months left at the very most. It could be weeks, or even days. Alone in the dark, silent lane, he wept again. Then he heard the bin lorry in the distance. The bin men would soon be in the lane. With an effort, he forced himself back into the store. What was he going to do? He couldn’t get away with staging another robbery. He would have to think of something else. But at the same time, his fury at someone taking the money, denying Jenny her immediate chance of life, overruled everything else. If it meant trawling the streets of Glasgow every hour of every night, he’d find the bastard. He’d find him. He’d get the money back or whatever of it was left. And he’d kill the bastard. He’d kill him.

  Somehow he managed to work as usual – well, almost as usual – that day. Everyone was sympathetic, of course, and said he should not be in at work at all with his head injury and with being so upset. He should be at home resting and recovering from such a shock. Then whispers behind his back of ‘Such a conscientious, hard-working man’. It made him feel ashamed. If they only knew what he’d done. He kept to his office most of the day and attended to phone calls and paperwork as best he could. He had promised Jenny he would go to the clinic to see her after work and so, once he’d had a cup of tea and had taken a couple of painkillers, he locked up and made his way to the clinic.

  He knew something had happened the moment he set foot in the place. The doctor’s serious face told him all he feared before a word was spoken. Jenny had died only half an hour previously. A dreadful thought struck him. Maybe the physical effort and all the worry of being moved from her own bed and across the city had been too much for her. That had been his fault. He had been so obsessed about the clinic, so determined that she had to go. He hadn’t thought of the danger of her being moved. He had let her down. He hadn’t even been with her to comfort her when she died.

  He couldn’t bear it.

  12

  Before leaving for South Castle-on-Sea, Abi had gone to Edinburgh. It had been dry but cold. That was usually the way of it. Edinburgh had a cold east wind that probably kept the rain at bay most days. Glasgow was warmer, but wetter. Abi got off the train at Waverley Station and began walking towards the High Street. She wanted to tell John of her plan to visit South Castle-on-Sea. She could have told him over the phone that she was going down south for a few days, but she wanted to see him before leaving. Sometimes she took a taxi from the station but this time she felt like a walk. Also, she wanted to stock up with food from the gourmet food shops near the Royal Mile. The shops there sold delicious smoked salmon, kippers, a great variety of cheeses, not to mention haggis, oatcakes, shortbread and Dundee cake.

  She was a traditionalist. She not only preferred traditional Scottish food, she even preferred the Old Town to the Georgian New Town. The Royal Mile in the Old Town had at one time been the hub of the city. All Edinburgh life revolved around this single street. It ran from Edinburgh Castle sitting on top of Castle Rock, an ancient volcano, right down to the Palace of Holyroodhouse and Holyrood Abbey. It was in fact a succession of four streets – Castle Hill, the Lawnmarket, the High Street and the Canongate – with scores of narrow side streets or closes jutting out like ribs on either side.

  Abi passed John Knox’s house and remembered something she’d read about him meeting with the young Mary, Queen of Scots. Mary had not long arrived from France, where she’d had an elegant upbringing in the Royal Court. She said to Knox that she wanted the people of Scotland to continue to worship freely in the way they had always done, as long as she could worship in her own way. But John Knox would have none of it. Stubborn, bigoted old so-and-so, Abi thought.

  Here she was again outside the Scottish Parliament, and again feeling a bit confused once through the entrance. Security was a nuisance, but she supposed in today’s world it was a necessity. She obediently emptied her handbag and pockets and went through, on this occasion without a ping or the need to be frisked. She was getting used to the lack of directions, and made for the next counter in the main area, where she was given an identity card to hang around her neck. She told them about John, and a girl at the desk phoned him and then told her to go and have a cup of tea and he’d be down in half an hour or so because he was in the middle of something.

  But first of all she went over to the shop and bought some special sweets for the children. Then she wandered round to have a look at Queensberry House, whic
h was now attached, incongruously, to the Parliament building. It had been built as far back as 1667 and had been the home of the second Duke of Queensberry at the time of the signing of the Treaty of Union in 1707. For a time, it had been used as a public hospital, then as an army barracks, then as a ‘House of Refuge’. Eventually it had been bought by Scottish & Newcastle Breweries, who owned the rest of the surrounding site at the time. Now it provided office accommodation for the Presiding Officers and other parliamentary staff. There was also a room in it called the Dewar Room, which housed a collection of books and other memorabilia that had belonged to Donald Dewar, Scotland’s first First Minister. He had died before the Parliament building had been completed. The architect, Enric Miralles, had also died and had never seen the work completed. Abi had heard that politicians had subsequently interfered with the design and the builders had kept upping their price as a result.

  Many people complained about the cost of the Parliament but John had quoted various buildings in England, especially in London, that had cost as much, and often very much more.

  ‘For instance, the refurbishment of the Ministry of Defence headquarters in London cost two point three billion. Nobody made any fuss about that, did they?’ he said.

  John had been surprised but pleased when she told him her news about going down to South Castle-on-Sea. ‘Och well, the change will do you good. Get plenty of good sea air into those lungs of yours.’

  Then of course, once in South Castle-on-Sea, Mr Webster had behaved a bit oddly at first and taken her round the back streets of the place to see shops. Shops! What on earth was he thinking of? Of course, he had told her that he had a lot on his mind. She wondered if there was trouble at home, though she’d met Mrs Webster, who seemed a lovely woman who adored her husband. He seemed to adore her too and he was very proud of his daughters.

  However, she did eventually get a walk along the seafront. It did her good and she felt relaxed and ready for a good dinner. It was a pity that Mr Webster had booked her into a hotel so far away from the centre. Why not that lovely little place directly opposite the pier with the potted plants all around it? It would have been so interesting watching from those windows all that was going on, all the entertainment on the pier.

  She would never have expected Mr Webster to disappoint her like this. The only excuse she could think of was that his mind was not on what he was doing. Admittedly, the hotel was comfortable and it was fascinating to meet the old gentleman who invented all the wonderful toys they stocked in the toy department. But after quite a long visit, she refused Mr Webster’s suggestion to go back to the hotel for lunch. Instead, she insisted on another walk along the promenade.

  ‘Why don’t we try that pretty place opposite the pier?’ she suggested. She was taken aback by the look of horror that spread over Mr Webster’s face. It was only for a couple of seconds, but there was no mistaking the immediate reflex of horror.

  ‘Oh, no,’ he said, apparently recovering his composure but avoiding her eyes. ‘They don’t do luncheon. It’s just a B. & B. place.’

  He was hiding something. That was it. The obvious answer was a woman. She wasn’t daft. He was having it off with another woman. He was secretly being unfaithful to his wife. No wonder he was shocked when she announced she was coming with him to South Castle-on-Sea. He didn’t want to be found out. She was shocked herself now. It was the last thing she would have expected of Mr Webster. Some of the other buyers, yes. But not Mr Webster. He had everything going for him – a lovely and loving wife, two attractive daughters. The more she thought about what he was doing to his wife and family, the more angry she became. She wanted to sack him right there and then. She struggled to control the impulse. Strictly speaking, it was not a sacking offence. It was his own private life and it was not affecting his job. Another thought struck her. If she did sack him, it might very well affect the toy department. Could he, would he, take his agreement with the old toy inventor elsewhere? Any of the big stores in Glasgow or elsewhere would jump at the chance of a contract like that and a buyer like Mr Webster. To sack Mr Webster would be hurting Goodmans, not him.

  She was stiffly quiet all the journey home and gave him only a brief, polite thank-you when they parked outside her house. She didn’t even ask him in for a cup of tea, even though she would have been glad of some company – any company. The house was always coldly silent. You could almost touch the silence, it was so heavy and strong.

  She switched on the television. It was one of the soaps and the characters all seemed so unreal, some storylines stretching out for so long that she had become fed up with them. She put the kettle on, then returned to the sitting room to fiddle with the programme controls. There was an antiques programme, a cooking programme, and something about wildlife; none of them awakened any interest in her.

  Her eyes kept straying over to the window and the rustling, swaying trees. Tom used to love looking out at the garden. In the summer they both enjoyed sitting outside. Sometimes they had a barbecue. Tom always took charge of that. Outside and inside, everything and everywhere had been lovely when he had been there. Now the sights and sounds outside only served to increase her loneliness and despair, and even pepper her with fear and apprehension. She could not resist going over and jerking shut the heavy curtains. Clinging on to them, she leaned her head against the cool material.

  Mr Webster did not know how lucky he was to have his loving partner. Obviously, he did not appreciate his good fortune. Life was so unfair. Her anger at Mr Webster returned. She nursed it through to the kitchen and the intensity of it made her hand tremble as she made herself a cup of tea. His behaviour was despicable and he didn’t deserve to get away with it.

  She wondered if she should have a straight talk with him, tell him what she thought of his behaviour. For a minute, though, it occurred to her that it might all be in her imagination. But no, the signs were all there. He looked, acted, and was as guilty as hell.

  She felt almost unbearably restless and only one of her CSI: Miami DVDs managed to capture her attention. Only Horatio’s gentleness, his quiet, caring personality, soothed her chaotic emotions. She relaxed back into the cushions of the chair. Dear Horatio was so like Tom.

  13

  It was hard to believe, Miss Eden thought, as she gazed from her window, that Springburn had once been a hamlet inhabited by weavers, quarry workers and farm hands. The opening of the Edinburgh and Glasgow Railway changed all that. Soon Springburn became as famed for building locomotives as Govan had been for ships. When heavy engineering went into decline, the Corporation of Glasgow started to implement their urban renewal policy. This mainly meant new roadways, which destroyed eighty per cent of the old tenements and caused them to disappear under rubble. They were replaced by deck-access housing and high-rise flats, completely extinguishing the close friendships and community spirit of the past.

  Miss Eden missed all the old shops, especially the Co-op, whose proud boast was that they looked after everyone from the cradle to the grave. All the old landmarks had gone. Now it was all motorways. The graveyard was still there but the New Kinema picture house had long since disappeared. It had been known as ‘The Coffin’ because of its shape and the fact that it was over the wall from Sighthill Cemetery.

  Miss Eden sighed. She did not usually have this longing for the far-distant past of her childhood. She reckoned it must simply be a sign of feeling insecure in the present. The past seemed safer.

  She’d had a reply to her advert. A meeting had been arranged for the next day. The man, Andreas Palchinskaite, was Lithuanian. He was lonely, his reply had explained, and he wanted to meet a good Scottish woman with a view to ‘forming a serious relationship’. Did that mean marriage? She had heard that foreign women married Scottish men in order to get a British passport and British citizenship. However, there had been plenty of foreign men who were equally guilty of this.

  Was that was Andreas was after? Or was this just a case of her suspicious detective mind at work aga
in? She decided it would do no harm at least to meet him. She needn’t commit herself to anything. To be on the safe side, she suggested a lunchtime meeting instead of an evening one. She chose a place near Goodmans, so that she would have an excuse to leave him and make an easy return to work. She felt in a strange mood, which lasted all evening and into the next day. Was it a kind of intuition? She very nearly didn’t go to The Granary, the nearby healthfood shop with a few tables in an open area for everyone to see. There should be nothing to worry about there. And yet, she hesitated up to the last moment. Pulling herself together, she left Goodmans and walked along Glassford Street.

  There was only one male customer in the shop. He was sitting at a table behind a block of shelving, not at the tables by the window. Hiding? she wondered, but firmly put the idea out of her mind. She was becoming really paranoid. She approached him saying, ‘Andreas?’

  He rose immediately, clicking his heels and bowing over her outstretched hand.

  ‘It is a pleasure to meet you, Miss Eden.’ He indicated a seat. ‘You didn’t tell me your first name. May I ask what it is?’

  ‘Doris.’

  ‘What an attractive name.’

  That was a lie for a start. She had always hated her name and was grateful that only second names were used in Goodmans.

  The young waitress came over then and they ordered the home-made soup, a mixed salad and crusty bread, followed by coffee. Andreas told her he was a nurse in an old people’s care home. She was aware that there were many male nurses nowadays but it surprised her that he should be one. He looked more like a heavyweight boxer: broad-shouldered, strong-jawed, with piercing blue eyes. She had imagined and hoped for a more refined, sensitive type of man. Perhaps a writer or an artist, somebody creative. If he was a nurse, though, he must have some sensitivity and caring in his nature, especially working in a care home for the elderly. He asked about her job and she told him she was an assistant in a family department store.