The Quiet Death of Thomas Quaid: Lennox 5 Read Free Page B

read too many spy novels, Mr Lennox. Admittedly it would be one way of making sure no one would know that the ideas had been stolen, but all it takes is for your man’s skills as a photographer not to match his as a burglar and the photographs turn out blurry and unreadable – or for something to go wrong in the developing process. A chain is only as strong as its weakest link. I always think it’s an idea to have as few links as possible. Anyway, like I say, it could be days, even weeks, before these original blueprints are noticed missing.’ He paused. ‘This really is a high-pay, low-risk opportunity, Mr Lennox. Seven hundred pounds for a single night’s work. If you’re not interested, then there are plenty of others I could ask.’
    ‘So why haven’t you?’ I saw a contradiction in what McNaught was saying: as far as I could see, I was an unnecessary link in the chain; a little asking around and he could probably have found and hired Quiet Tommy Quaid himself. And more cheaply.
    ‘Because most of them are criminals. This enterprise lies only partly on the wrong side of the law; criminals are completely on the wrong side of the law. Less reliable. And more chance of complications with the police.’
    ‘And I fit your picture of someone with a foot planted on both sides of the law, is that it?’
    ‘I’m asking you to do what your business card says you do. I just need you to bend the law a little to do it. So yes – I not only believe you have the skills needed to manage this perfectly, but that your door would not be the first port of call for the police, should they become involved. And I’m guessing you would only hire someone you can guarantee to keep their mouth shut should they be unlucky enough to be caught.’
    ‘That’s something I can absolutely guarantee.’ My hand still rested on the envelope and I looked questioningly at McNaught. He nodded and I lifted and opened it.
    ‘This looks like—’
    ‘The Saracen Ironworks. Yes,’ McNaught interrupted me.
    ‘What are these plans you’re stealing?’ I asked, confused. I had expected the layout of some top-secret laboratory somewhere. ‘The pattern for a 'phone box? I could sketch that out for you here and now.’ The red 'phone box had become, for those like myself not born in the sceptred isle, an icon of Britishness. Most red 'phone boxes in the UK had been cast at the Saracen Foundry. The romance of this particular cultural icon had faded for me over my years in Glasgow, mainly because of the locals’ custom of using them as public conveniences. I also reflected that only minutes before, as I had watched the police arrive at Central Station, I had been looking at the Saracen Foundry’s work in the shape of the station entrance’s elaborate cast iron canopy.
    ‘I’m sure you’re aware that the foundry produces more than fountains, bandstands and 'phone boxes,’ said McNaught. ‘The nature of the item we’re interested in is none of your concern. The details in there tell you what your man is looking for and where to find it.’
    ‘Okay.’ I shrugged. McNaught was right: it would be a walk in the park for Quiet Tommy Quaid. Security was light and the works were out of town and there wouldn’t be many coppers pounding the Possilpark beat. Possilpark was a part of Glasgow that had been created out of the green fields of some toff’s estate and built over with tenements exclusively used as housing for the foundry’s workers. Medieval serfdom had simply been replaced with a newer, post-Industrial Revolution version. At Possilpark’s heart and surrounded by a high wall, the foundry buildings themselves covered acres of land. I still was confused as to why an ironworks would be the target of industrial espionage – but as McNaught had pointed out, that was his and his client’s business, not mine.
    Before he left, McNaught told me to be by my home 'phone on Sunday, ‘between thirteen hundred and thirteen-thirty hours’, when he