Dowdall’s eyes flick in his direction, pleased that Watt is lying.
Manuel pushes his scrawny packet of smokes across the table with his fingertips and Watt looks at it. They are cheap but not the cheapest and quite an unusual brand. He doesn’t say yes or no but takes a cigarette from the packet of Piccadilly. Manuel offers him a light from a matchbook. It is red and yellow, a promotional matchbook from Jackson’s Bar.
Jackson’s Bar is a gangster pub in the Gorbals. It has a very specific clientele of suited men on the make. It is not for whorish women or clapped-out hard men. Fights happen outside, not in the glass-glinting bar. No one wants the cops in there, with jobs being arranged, deals getting done and connections being made.
Manuel sees Watt read the matchbook. Their eyes meet and they both understand. That part of the city is as small as a midgie’s oxter. They probably know a lot of the same people. Watt is sure he can do good business with Manuel, if they could only get rid of Dowdall.
They both look at Dowdall, tapping his cigarette nervously on the edge of the ashtray. Watt sees Manuel’s lip curling resentfully, wishing Dowdall away so they can speak to each other, unguarded. He sees that they have a common aim.
The waiter arrives with the tray of drinks. They all watch in silence as he puts them on the table and takes the money from Watt. He has charged Watt for the drinks Manuel had before they arrived. Manuel must have said he would pay. Manuel looks at Watt steadily. It’s cheeky but Manuel doesn’t seem embarrassed. He is so unembarrassed that Watt is confused. He searches his face for twitches of defiance but has the strange sensation that Manuel isn’t feeling anything at all.
As the waiter saunters away, Dowdall concerns himself with his Scotch. Manuel widens his eyes at Watt. Watt frowns. Manuel juts his chin, telling Watt to begin but Watt doesn’t know what to begin.
Manuel looks at the salesmen, the couple, the passing ma?tre d’ and then eyes Dowdall. He smirks at Watt. Dowdall is a public man. They all recognise him. He has a reputation to lose. Neither Watt nor Manuel have any reputation worth defending.
Watt understands what Manuel means. He nearly smiles but Manuel warns him not to with a little shake of his head, no, don’t smile, just begin.
So Watt says loudly: ‘MANUEL! If I find out that you had ANYTHING to do with the Burnside Affair, why, I will TEAR YOUR ARMS OFF, sir!’
The room holds its breath.
Manuel shouts back: ‘NOBODY. DOES. THAT. TO MANUEL.’
Now no one in the restaurant is speaking. The couple stare at their plates, thrilled. The salesmen have drawn in tight around their table. The ma?tre d’ is watching, frightened, because it’s down to him to break it up if they start throwing punches. And Dowdall, respectable, well-kent Dowdall, has suddenly got a very itchy arse. He’s writhing in his chair but resists the urge to run.
Watt is delighted by how clever they have been, spotting this weakness in Dowdall’s resolve. He leans across the table. Watt is massive. His giant hands are twice as big as Manuel’s. His huge head, his wide face, his shoulders, they dwarf Manuel. By leaning forward an inch he has colonised the entire table.
‘Manuel!’ Watt’s voice is sharp. ‘See here! Before we begin, let me make myself abundantly clear on one issue, right from the off–’
‘KNOW YE TALK TOO MUCH, PAL?’ Manuel’s tone is a prison-promise of a fight coming. He leans slowly in to meet Watt. Watt has to drop back or they’d be pressing their faces together like a couple of pansies.
Manuel exhales a stream of smoke from one side of his mouth and gives a bitter smile. Watt turns his whisky glass around and around on the spot. They smoke at each other.
Dowdall puts his hand on the table, calling an end to the round by tapping a finger on the tabletop. Tap tap tap. He asks Manuel if he has information for Mr Watt?
With an unblinking nod Manuel concedes that he does. Dowdall asks, will he give Mr Watt the information?
A nod.
Does the information pertain to the murders at Burnside?
‘Aye.’ Manuel gives a careless shrug. ‘Sure,’ he says, as if it’s nothing, as if it’s not the murder of three members of Watt’s family and the sex attack of his seventeen-year-old daughter.
Dowdall reaches for his coat, drawing it onto his knee. He’s planning to escape the moment the information is imparted and he means to take William Watt with him. He nods for Manuel to begin but Manuel doesn’t speak.
Watt raises his eyebrows, interested to see how Manuel will stop this happening.
Manuel has a stubby pencil in his hand. He scribbles something in the margin of his newspaper and pushes it across to Watt.
Newspapermen, it says, as one word.
Watt doesn’t understand so Manuel nods at the table of salesmen who are now watching plates of gammon steak and potatoes being delivered by the waiter.
Manuel writes again, Not here.
Watt shakes his head. ‘Why?’
Manuel sits back, staring at Watt, and slides his hand across the tabletop to the newspaper. His finger rests on the scribble in the margin: Newspapermen. He taps it.
It’s bullshit, and bad bullshit at that. Those men are not journalists. Anyway, Manuel and Watt have been shouting at each other. Now they can’t talk quietly for fear of it being in the newspapers? Dowdall draws a breath, his face sceptical, he’s about to say it’s nonsense but suddenly Manuel snarls a loud animal growl at Watt.
Dowdall is on his feet. His coat is over his arm, the Bentley key is in his hand. He empties his glass of whisky and soda in one smooth move, stepping away from the table with a little bow.
‘Gentlemen,’ he says, meaning quite the reverse. He squeezes Watt’s shoulder as he passes. A warning: be careful.
The greasy velvet curtain drops behind him. His relief billows back at them in a draught.
They are alone.
Watt means to begin by sounding friendly, hoping the evening will remain collegiate in tone.
‘Well, Chief,’ he says. ‘You handled that scenario very nicely. I must say, I am agreeably surprised to meet you.’
Manuel blows a thick stream of cigarette smoke at the tabletop and narrows his eyes, ‘We’ve got a lot to talk about.’
Watt smiles pleasantly and toasts his new friend. ‘We most certainly have.’
Their night together has begun.
2
Wednesday 14 May 1958
IT IS NEARLY SIX months later and Peter Manuel is on trial for eight murders. These include the three Watt women. Seven of the murders are ‘in pursuit of theft’: if he is found guilty of any one of them he will be hanged. The eighth, the murder of Anne Kneilands back in December 1956, is not in pursuit of theft. It’s a lesser charge.