AND BROKEN HEARTS
by Craig Russell
'Who, where or what is "Tanglewood"?'
It was a simple
question and, given the circumstances, an entirely reasonable and
necessary one. Neither I nor my soon-to-be-client were filled with
dread at my utterance of those six innocent words.
The thing is,
though, we should have been.
Nineteen Fifty-six, the year that was winding up, may have been a
bad year for the British Empire, but had, for me, been a good one
business-wise. Not as lucrative as some of its predecessors, admittedly,
but for the first time in years the buck I was turning was completely
honest. It had been a full thirteen months since I had done any work
for any one of the Three Kings, Glasgow Underworld's answer to Caesar,
Pompey and Crassus, and I hadn't gotten into any real tangles.
The last tangle,
however, had ended in a way that could have had me stretching a length
of hangman's hemp. An experience like that increased the appeal of
the straight and narrow.
Since then, I
had decided to keep a profile that was as legitimate as it was low.
Most of the work I now did was gathering evidence for divorce cases,
security work, or snooping about for companies or lawyers. Divorce
in 1950s Scotland was a protracted, painful and Rhadamanthine process;
meaning it offered a great opportunity for turning a profit. I had
taken help on full time: Archie McClelland, the ex-City of Glasgow
Police beat man, who did most of the court work for me. Courtrooms
made me nervous, especially when some smart-ass lawyer started to
call into question my credentials as a witness. Some things don't
bear a great deal of scrutiny. My past was definitely one of them.
The most important
thing was that it had been quite a while since I'd found myself wrestling
with a thug, looking down a gun barrel or fending off some Teddy Boy
armed with a tyre lever, knuckleduster or switchblade. That was one
thing I could say about divorce cases: bursting in on unfaithful husbands
in flagrante with their secretaries meant that the only weapons
you tended to find being waved in your direction pretty rapidly lost
their ability to bruise.
'I don't know,'
Pamela Ellis said in answer to my question. 'I don't even know if
Tanglewood is a who, a where, or a what.'
'But you overheard
him say it, so you must have heard it in the context of a sentence,
something to give us a clue.'
'All I heard
Andrew say was the word "Tanglewood". He was on the telephone
and I heard him say "Got it. Tanglewood." Then the person
at the other end of the line must have been speaking - for quite a
time - and then Andrew just said "okay" and hung up the
'And then he
'Then he went
out. He left a note on the hall table, by the telephone, saying he
had been called out to a customer and he wouldn't be back until very
late, and that he would get something to eat while he was out.'
'And you were
'In the lounge,'
she said. They had lounges in Bearsden. Not parlours or living rooms;
lounges. 'I had come back early and he didn't know I was in the house.
He came in through the front door, made the call on the hall telephone,
then left again.'
I leaned back
in my chair. Pamela Ellis was a woman loitering uncertainly on the
threshold of middle age, as if undecided whether she should simply
surrender to the thickening of waist and hip and answer the call of
tweed and stout shoes. It was clear that she had once been pretty,
and was still a handsome woman, but there was a weariness that seemed
to hang about her. She had called into my third-floor office in Gordon
Street without having first made an appointment. It was the kind of
thing that I decided I should discourage by telling my secretary to
send away anyone who turned up without an appointment. But I'd have
to start by hiring a secretary.
'And he came
'Late. I stayed
up for him and he didn't get back till eleven. He'd been gone for
over five hours.'
'And how was
he with you when he came back?'
you wouldn't expect him to be anything else.'
'And you were
fine with him?'
'I tried to be
as normal as possible. You know, as if I didn't suspect anything.'
'We don't know
yet that there is anything to suspect. Did he offer any further
explanation for where he had been?'
'He said it had
had something to do with work. Someone needing an estimate. That's
what he's been saying about all the times he disappears: that it's
to do with work.'
'You do know,
Mrs Ellis, that there is every chance that it is all exactly as innocent
'I know. I want
to believe that
and it really could be business. It's just that
he's been so strange lately. Usually, when he gets home from work,
he just relaxes. Sits and chats with me. I mean, demolition isn't
the kind of business you do out of office hours. The customers Andrew
usually deals with are councils or building firms needing a site cleared.
And he has salesmen to deal with most of that side of things anyway.
But it's not just him going out in the evening at short notice that's
worrying me: it's the way he is when he's at home, too; the way he's
withdrawn into himself. When he isn't out, he's so quiet. Sometimes
he just sits for an hour, staring at the fire and saying nothing.
It's just not like him. He has this shed, you see, in the garden.
He used to spend hours there, tinkering with stuff. If ever I go into
it to borrow something, I always forget to lock the shed behind me.
Andrew is always giving me rows about that, but now he's hardly in
there. Just sits moping by the fire. The other thing is that I can't
find any notes.'
'Andrew is incredibly
organized. Actually, that's not true
he's terribly disorganized
and forgetful, so he writes everything down. Makes notes about everything:
every meeting, every new client's name, every appointment time or
figure quoted. He uses notebooks mainly, but I'm always finding notes
on scraps of paper. You see, that's the thing
about these meetings and there's never been any note referring to
"Tanglewood". I'm telling you, Mr Lennox, the fact that
he is making such an effort not to put anything down is suspicious
in its own right.'
'When he goes
out, is it always for five or six hours?'
Sometimes he's only gone an hour. Other times it's five hours. It
never seems to be anything in between. There is one odd thing, though,
about the longer disappearances
'He takes a pair
of heavy boots with him. I mean, he often takes wellington boots with
him if he's visiting a site, but not his heavy boots.'
I nodded, taking
it all in. 'Is there anything that you can think of that might be
bothering him?' I asked. 'Preying on his mind?'
that I can think of. He's annoyed about all of this carry-on in Hungary
at the moment. He listens to the news and it seems to make him worse,
but there's something more than that going on in his head.'
'I think it's safe to say that annoyance at current affairs doesn't
explain his behaviour being quite so odd,' I said.
'No. It doesn't.
'So that's why
you suspect it could be another woman?'
'I just don't know. I can't think what else it could be.'
far be it from me to try to talk you out of giving me
work, but before you do hire me, you've got to think about where this
may lead you. Let's say your husband is carrying on an affair
with another woman and we manage to prove that
what then? Do
you want to divorce your husband if we prove he's been unfaithful?
It's a messy, unpleasant business and there are your children to think
'You can take
it to a divorce case?' she asked, perplexed. She clearly had not thought
the process through to its natural conclusion.
'I can recommend
a lawyer and I - or at least my associate, Mr Archibald McClelland
- can appear in court to provide evidence of infidelity, should we
find it. My point is that it is a huge step to take - and a difficult
one. Sometimes, I'm afraid to say, ignorance really can be bliss.
If you want to walk away from this now, I would fully understand.'
I always gave
clients this opportunity to consider their options. Of all of those
options, divorce was the toughest and messiest one. Divorce in Britain
generally was a difficult and sordid affair, and particularly so in
staunchly Presbyterian Scotland. At the end of the war, the divorce
rate had rocketed, reaching an all-time record in Forty-seven. It
was all the sad result of men coming back broken or bitter or altered
and dropped straight back into a society that no longer made much
sense to them. Sometimes there would be evidence - often living, breathing,
nappy-wearing evidence - of a wife's infidelity.
Ten years after
the war was over, it was still claiming casualties, but casualties
of battles fought in the divorce courts. I had a theory about it all
- as I tended to have about most things. The Great Lennox Theory of
Divorce Law was that the government and the law lords went out of
their way not to modernize divorce laws that were woefully in need
of reform; and the reason for their reluctance to make the process
easier was some deep fear that the very fabric of British society
was in danger of coming apart. They should have come to Glasgow, I
had often thought, to see how threadbare and tattered that fabric
was at the best of times.
thought about what I had said for a moment, frowning. Then, decisively,
she said, 'No. No, Mr Lennox, I need to know. I don't know what I'll
do if you find anything - maybe I'll just confront him about it. Or
maybe I'll not say anything. But at least I'll know. At least I'll
have found out for sure.'
I smiled. 'That's
your decision, Mrs Ellis. Can you tell me some more about your husband,
please? Personal history, habits
anything that might help me
build a picture of Andrew Ellis.'
'Oh, I don't
Andrew's an ordinary kind of man, really. Someone I've
always felt, well, comfortable with. I mean, that's partly why I find
his behaviour of late so disturbing. It's so unlike him to be anything
other than ordinary. He doesn't smoke, doesn't drink much
not much of a one for the pub. Work is everything to him. That and
his home life
' She choked on the last part and clearly struggled
to keep a lid on her emotions. But she managed: ten years of living
in Scotland had shown me the Scots were world champions at keeping
a lid on emotions.
'Do you have
She shook her
head. 'We tried, but we can't.'
'What about work?'
I asked. 'How did Mr Ellis get into the demolition business?'
'He was in the
RAOC and then the Royal Engineers during the war. Bomb disposal to
start with then demolition. Andrew always said that he spent half
his time stopping things blowing up and then the other half making
them blow up.'
'NCO. He was
a volunteer. He had been exempt from the call-up, but he wanted to
serve so he volunteered.'
'Because he was
in a reserved occupation?' I asked. A lot of Glaswegians had dodged
the bullet of war-time conscription, sometimes more than metaphorically,
because they worked in essential industries such as the shipyards
'No. No it wasn't
that. Andrew had to go through all of these panels and interviews
when it came out about his family background.'
'I'm sorry, what
do you mean, "family background"?'
were Hungarian,' she explained. 'They changed their name to Ellis
from Elès. They came over after the Great War. That's why he
was so upset about all of this trouble in Hungary. Andrew has never
thought of himself as anything other than a Glaswegian, a Scot. But
when he volunteered to serve his country, he suddenly found himself
being treated as a foreigner. Worse than that, they treated him as
a potential enemy alien because Hungary was an Axis power.'
'But he got in.'
'Only by volunteering
to train for bomb disposal. It was dangerous work and there was a
shortage of volunteers.'
'I can imagine
I said. I had myself had an encounter with a German grenade that had
been some way distant and with one of my men between me and it. The
long-term result of this confrontation had been the faint web of pale
scars on my right cheek, still visible every morning in the shaving
mirror. The bomb boys got a lot more up-close and intimate with munitions
than I had been and it took a special kind of cool. Or stupidity.
'And after the war he set up business using the skills he'd learned?'
'After he was
demobbed, Andrew went to work for Hall's Demolitions. That's where
I met him. I worked in the office, you see. He went straight in as
an ordnance handler because of his war experience and was team boss
in no time. But then, when old man Hall died, Andrew couldn't work
with his son, so he went out on his own.'
'And you went
'I did all the
paperwork when the business was small. I left when the business became
established and we took on staff.'
'I'm sorry, Mrs
Ellis, but I have to ask: has your husband had any affairs in the
past, or behaved with women in a way that has caused you concern?'
'So why now?'
'Like I told
you, he's changed. He's different
preoccupied, I suppose,
like there's something weighing on his mind. Almost like he's haunted.'
I nodded. Haunted
was a look that a lot of men who'd been in the war had. But it didn't
tend to be something that came on suddenly a decade later, like delayed
'Could he be
worried about the business?'
She shook her
head. 'No, business has been good. Andrew's got a lot of contracts
from the Corporation. You know, clearing slums for new flats.'
'I guess it's
a boom time for that
' I said and grinned. She either didn't
get the gag or chose not to, which I couldn't blame her for - it was
a pretty lame gag. But I did see that there would be a lot of demolition
work available: Glasgow Corporation were in the process of blasting
more Glaswegian real estate out of existence than the Luftwaffe had
managed. The Future, apparently, was High-Rise. Hundreds of Glaswegian
families now stood staring in slack-jawed amazement at toilets that
they didn't need to go outside to use. And that they didn't
need to share with five other families.
'Could he be
worried about something else? You don't think there could be some
kind of medical concern that he's not telling you about?'
'I doubt it.
Andrew's one of the healthiest people I know.'
'I see,' I said,
and tried to work out how relative that statement was in Glasgow.
I had grown to have a deep affection for Glaswegians, but remained
confused by their lemming-like attitude to diet, cigarettes and booze.
I was witness to a million slow-motion suicides by lard. 'Well, I
suggest that we keep tabs on your husband for a while, Mrs Ellis.
May I 'phone you at home to keep you informed?'
down a number with a tiny green pencil in a tiny green notebook, tore
out a page and passed it to me. 'Please, Mr Lennox, make sure you
only call when Andrew is at work.'
'Of course. I
will need a reasonably up-to-date-'
my request by taking a photograph from her handbag and handing it
to me. The dark-haired man in the picture had pale-coloured eyes,
a strong jaw and the type of regular, well-proportioned features that
should have made him handsome but instead somehow made him anonymous.
Bland, almost. His look was not typical for Glasgow, but he was not
the handlebar-moustachioed Magyar I had started to imagine. The main
impression I got from the photograph was that this was the kind of
face most people would take as that of a pleasant, honest man. But
I had learned not to take honesty at face value.
for the picture, I then questioned her further about her husband's
routine: the usual times he came home or went out, and so on. I took
down the addresses of his business premises, his golf club, the number
of his car. I dressed up with professional procedure the patent impertinence
of snooping into another human being's private life.
When we were
finished I thanked Mrs Ellis and she thanked me and I walked her out
into the stairwell. She thanked me once more and said goodbye. As
she did so she failed to hide the resentment and hatred in her eyes.
At the end of it all, I was the man who, with a single bright, hard
truth, would bring her marriage to an end.
Sometimes I missed
the plain honesty of gangsters, thugs and back-alley dealings.
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