The Keeper of the Gate by William Meikle

Author:William Meikle [Meikle, William]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2019-06-20T04:00:00+00:00

My first port of call in the morning was Old Joe downstairs in the newsagents. He passed me two packs of Marlboro Reds and I asked him about the Prof.

"I ken the man you mean," the old man said, swaying from side to side as he spoke as if balancing his weight equally on his feet. "Some kind of physicist I think; stars and planets, sky stuff like that."

"Sky stuff, eh? Sounds technical."

Joe laughed.

"You ken me, lad. Football, bookies and lines of credit I can handle, but hard sums is another matter. But if it is the man I'm thinking of, he's got a house out Balloch way, and one of yon big telescopes in his garden. I only ken because I ken a man who kens the man who built the observatory for him."

Joe knows a lot of men who know a lot of other men, but he couldn't help me with Penderton's son. He smiled as I had to move aside to let a customer approach the counter.

"Sorry, Derek; I just ken about the sky stuff."

Over a smoke and a coffee I spent some time at my laptop upstairs. There weren't many Andrew Pendertons in Glasgow, and only two with current phone numbers. When I dialed the first I got a retired Govan brickie who was very chatty, and more than a bit sad; I liked him, but I liked the idea of five grand better, so didn't rise to the bait of his attempts to get into a conversation. The second number rang out to voicemail but I didn’t leave a message; I prefer legwork when I can get it, it brings me into closer contact with places I can buy a drink. My reverse look-up app gave me an address in the West End only a mile or so from my office, it wasn't raining, and I was developing a thirst, so I headed out and up Hyndland Road in search of adventure. Admittedly, there's normally not a great deal of that to be found at the top of Partickhill Avenue, and that morning was no exception.

The streets were quiet, it being both a work and school day. I was heading for number 23, and the only other person on the road was an elderly lady, out on her doorstep throwing lumps of bread at a flock of squalling pigeons, seagulls and crows as if she was trying to hit them with it.

"Give one a skelp for me," I shouted as I walked past.

"Go fuck yourself," was her measured response, and one that set the tone for much of what followed that day.

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