Chapter 20

Thank God that Professor Bryson had recharged the camera’s battery for me, so I could leave it in the Market for several nights if necessary to catch the image of the intruder. Sandy, who had supervised the process, told me that Bryson had noted that surprisingly there was a motion detector built in. With such a small device, he was astonished that such a detector might be possible. He explained that the camera could therefore be set up to take a picture only when there was some movement in the viewfinder’s vision. That would allow a long-term scan of a location with action only when something was different, and thus save on battery power.

My bedtimes at home were taken up by wives, usually two per night, and I didn’t fancy spending any nights inside the Market; I preferred to spend inside my women, pregnant or not.

Fortunately we won’t need to use the transport machine for this specific job, as I can simply walk into the Market, find the best place to site and sight the camera, and tape it to an upright or crosspiece to give it the wide-angled picture of what is in front of the lens.

Sandy had spent ages checking on what the camera could see at various settings of the controls, such as wide-angle. She described it as an updated IQ test for her, as the controls are all set by finger pressing of icons on the screen; nothing in any way normal for this time, though it is possible to work out what each icon indicates, as the icons suggest possibles by their design. Fortunately she is a clever woman; admittedly cleverer than me, and can deduce what is implied by each icon.

I was tasked with finding some means of deterring the problem father from abusing his wife, and possibly also his children, though no-one had suggested that to date as being so. It was merely a low-level possibility, or a bad assumption, on the basis of the children avoiding him by being out a lot. The children may be trying to stay away any time their mother might be getting hit. The only other option for a brave child is to stand between the parents and hope their father would be dissuaded from continuing; a risky choice to try.

I once did that between my own parents as an early teenager, when my father was afflicted with a mental imbalance that gave rise to anger. I got in front of her and yelled at him not to hit my mother! Fortunately, that worked at the moment, and he subsided while yelling back at me to stop ‘interfering’. My mother was more concerned for me than for herself on that occasion.

He was eventually persuaded to talk it over with the doctor and was put on mild tranquillisers to lower his reaction levels to anger stimulants. That did the job, thank God! It also made him less mentally active, which was unusual for him.

This other errant father was more of a mystery to me, as I had no clue as to what was causing the man’s anger, and no means of directly getting professional help for him. The only avenue I could see was getting his wife to visit a doctor with any kind of ailment, where the medic might observe bruises from a beating, and take it from there. This would have to happen when the husband was not around, as he would probably want to prevent bruises from being noticed and acted on by a medical professional.

I talked it over with my wives, as a hypothetical situation that I had heard talked about, and wondered what they saw as a possible solution.

They had a shed-load of ideas, most of which were impractical from the point of view of direct action without bad consequences. I explained myself farther, “What I need is a situation where I or we remain unknown but he is given a strong message about his behaviour. Not easy, I know, but all ideas are welcome, even if they sound outlandish. There is no simple solution.”

There was an uncomfortable silence, then Carol asked, “When you say, remain unknown, would it be enough to be unrecognised; not look like yourself?”

“Now, there’s a thought, but how would I not look like myself? Wear a disguise, like a fake beard or something?”

Carol smiled. “No. No fake beard; that is too obvious. Curiously enough, it takes very little for people to not see you for who you are. If you look older, it cannot be you; if you are wearing the wrong clothes, it must be someone who happens to look like you; if your hair is not in your style, it must be someone else; and so on.”

I at last twigged to the proposal she was offering.

“You mean if I look slightly different from me, it cannot be me, so that if he saw me later, he would not recognise me as the same person?”

“Exactly, and if a witness describes you, they will clearly not be describing the real you.”

“Sounds interesting. What exactly would you suggest, my love?”

“Your hair is normally neat and tidy, because you need to look decent for both your jobs; you have to look competent to clients. For this specific task, have your hair mussed up and unruly, and that will be noticed. Wear dungarees – not new ones, we can get you old ones to wear - and you will appear as a manual worker. In the same manner, do not wear your dress shoes, but instead wear trainers. The trainers should not be clean, but scuffed-looking and appearing dirty. Don’t wear a tie; instead have an open-necked shirt on, and it should be a checked shirt instead of your standard white one. Don’t shave for a day or two; that adds to the change of appearance, the image of a manual worker less careful of his appearance. Everything about you should shout that it is not Bob McIntyre, even if they have might seen you before.

Even your speech should change. Speak slower and distinctly as if thinking about what to say, and use more slang words or local Lallans dialect if you can remember the words. You were taught at school to speak standard English, so speaking this version of the Scots tongue makes you not you. With a bit of luck, you will be described as a completely different man to your normal persona.”

“Good God! How did you come up with that, Carol?”

“I have been reading books about how to make people look good, and one was about cinema make-up artists. It is their task to make a character’s image fit the script, and it is amazing how little needs to be done to achieve that end. It means a star can act as various characters but still be the familiar star. Do you recall seeing that marvellous old film, “Kind Hearts and Coronets”? In it the wonderful actor Alec Guinness plays eight different characters who all get bumped off, to allow him to inherit the Dukedom! He looks different as each character, but you can make out that it that every one is him. If you haven’t, you are missing a marvel.

I can pass on that knowledge of how to change a person, if you want to apply it for this occasion.”

I was delighted at her suggestions, and asked about looking older.

“That’s easy,” she said. “A few careful touches of dark make-up and your face will look different; a few dark lines under your eyes and on your cheek bones, and that will add ten years to your apparent age.”

“How about in close-up situations, such as in a pub? Will it be noticed as make-up?”

“The best make-up is never evident to the naked eye. You should not be seen as wearing make-up, if the application is done properly, which means applied with gentle fading from one shade to another.”

“Wow! I am all for that, Carol. While I cut out my daily shaving regime, I can find out that family’s home address, and the location of the pub the guy frequents. At the office, if asked, I will say I am thinking of growing a beard; if I like how it starts the growth I’ll let it get longer. I can later shave it off and say I didn’t like the result.”

With that agreed, I got Sandy to ask about the house address, and where the man drank his beer. I decided not to be directly involved, that being too much an obvious connection.

Next day, I took the car for a short drive around Gourock, to give the house a shufti and see what I could observe about it. It was a perfectly normal council house, one of four in a block; two downstairs and two above, the upper ones each entered via an outside set of concrete stairs edged with a concrete balustrade. The target’s home was conveniently one of the lower ones.

I drove on to find the pub he was reputed to frequent; the Bay Bar. It was in the next street, nearer the town centre, and the exterior looked somewhat decrepit. The building appeared to be decades old, and little spent on its upkeep. Perhaps the interior was better. There were few signs of customers coming in or out, but that may be the time of day. Evenings were probably peak time.

I reported back to my ladies and listened to their comments. The main drift was that a simple approach at the front door of the house could get me the confrontation I was hoping for, but without any real danger as it would be in full view of the neighbourhood, and less problematic than a public house full of enthusiastic and willing witnesses. My women recommended using the discreet disguise part of the plan, so that I could vanish afterwards and revert to my true self.

After two days of not shaving, and the ladies selecting and preparing my clothing and footwear to dress down for the occasion, I was about ready. I planned and tried speaking my use of worker-level local dialect usage, and Carol practised each evening doing my make-up and mussing my hair to appear somewhat unkempt, less careful about my appearance.

By Saturday I was set to go. Georgie drove me to the street where the house lay, and dropped me off several hundred yards from it, so that I could walk there and not be observed arriving by car. It was her car rather than mine, though I thought that would matter little; it was the same household.

It was late afternoon, so I expected him to be home. I confirmed the house number, walked up to the front door and rapped the door knocker twice rapidly. I waited until the door opened, and a worried-looking woman stood there.

“Yes?” she asked.

“Is Alex Glasgow at home?”

“Yes. I’ll get him for you. Please wait there.”

Clearly no-one gets invited in without the master’s approval. I waited as she closed the door in my face and went to get him. The door opened again, and a middle-aged man stood there, looking at me with suspicion.

“Aye? Whit dae ye want?”

I looked him up and down. We were of a similar height.

“Ah wis wonderin’ if it wis okay to hit your wumman?”

“What? You?”

“Aye. Wid it be okay for me to belt your wifie?”

“Dinna be stupid, mon. Of course not.”

“Ah, then can anyone bash your wife?”

“Whit ur ye on about? Ye cannae hit her, I just said so.”

“But anyone else can?”

“Na; naebody can, and that’s it. I dunno whit ye are oan aboot. Ye’re nae makkin sense.”

“Ah wis just getting’ it clear. Naebody can get to hit her, ye say; so that’ll include yersel’ I tak it?”

“Eh? Why should it?”

“Simple. If naebody should hit her, that should include yersel’. I think we can agree on that.”

“Why should we ... I mean why should I?”

“Oh, ‘cos if you hit her again, me an’ some o’ ma pals will find you and show you what it feels like. You fancy that, Alex?”

“You threatenin’ me, mon?”

“You can tak it that way, sure, but if you decide to belt her one, ye’ll be deciding you want to be hit yersel’, see? Your ain decision. Fair’s fair, innit?”

He glared at me, uncertain of what to say.

“Fa ur ye, onywye?” he demanded.

I smiled back.

“Yer freen or yer enemy, Alex. It is up to ye to decide. Fareweel for the noo.”

I raised a forefinger to my forehead in salute, and turned to walk away. He went to grab my shoulder, but I shrugged his hand off and turned back to waggle my forefinger at him.

“Dinna even think aboot it, Alex. Someone may be watchin’ us, mebbe someone wi’ a camera, at that. Evidence of your violent streak, see?”

His hand dropped and he stared at me in confusion,. Then he looked around more widely, as I searching for a photographer. I took the opportunity to leave, striding down his path to the street and turning to walk up the flagstone-paved footpath at a steady pace, neither rushing nor sauntering; acting as if I didn’t have a care in the world. I could almost feel his eyes on me as I departed, but he was left with a possible punishment hanging over him, and he had no idea who was proposing to cause him harm in retribution if he hit his wife again.

He was obviously wondering who knew this and how. I doubt he would imagine the church as the instigator of retribution!

After a hundred yards, I pretended I was about to cross the road and took the opportunity to glance back and see if he was watching. He had gone back inside, so I was able to advance to the next corner and turn into the next street, where Georgie and her car were parked, waiting for me.

I opened the passenger door and slipped inside; and Georgie moved off at once, smoothly and confidently. I slouched down in my seat to appear less visible, and we drove home by a roundabout route to check if any car appeared to be following. None was, so we arrived home and I walked inside, going straight to the bathroom to strip off my dungarees, checked shirt, and scuffed sneakers, then wash my face clean of the make-up, and comb my hair with some water from the tap. My normal clothes were hanging on the towel rail, and I changed into them with some relief. My usual shoes were under the washbasin and I swiftly completed my changeover.

Sandy poked her head in to inform me that dinner would be ready in ten minutes, so I thanked her and used the toilet to empty my bladder before heading to the dining room. I had been needing to pee all the way home, due to the ongoing tension, so I was relieved in both ways.

We heard nothing more of the Glasgow household for some time, except that the minister came to visit us about a week later. He asked to speak with me privately, and once we were ensconsed in my study, he asked, “What happened to Alexander Glasgow? Did you do something?”

“Me? Whatever do you mean, Minister?”

“You see, at his Elder’s urging, I paid them a visit, expecting to have to encourage them to come to church. Instead, Alexander seemed unsettled, frightened almost. He told me had had been visited by a man who threatened him with a beating.”

I raised my eyebrows.

“Really? He was threatened? He should have gone to the police and reported this intended assault!”

“Possibly so, but he could not identify the man.”

“He did not know who the man was? Not even a description?”

“Oh, he was able to describe the visitor. He was taller than himself, he told me, and spoke much as he did as a working man. The fellow was apparently wearing dungarees and dirty sneakers, and his hair was a bit of a mess; not neatly combed like yours always is.”

“Hmm ... age?”

“Mr Glasgow guessed at about thirty or more; a slightly lined face, he said, a man of life experience.”

“And do we know anyone who fits that description?”

“Certainly no-one in our congregation; that I can say for certain, and no-one else that I have encountered. Have you seen anyone of that description, Mr. McIntyre? You didn’t send someone to act in that manner?”

“Can’t say that I have seen anyone like that, and I sent no-one, I assure you. If he was threatening, was he a burly type, able to physically carry out his threat of violence?”

“Oh, the threat was that he and his pals would do the bashing, not just himself.”

I gave him a concerned look, and asked, “But why was the fellow threatening him with assault anyway? I can’t understand assault without any kind of justification.”

“It took a bit of persuasion for him to tell me, but it seems the threat was that if he hit his own wife, he himself would be set upon later. That does sound worrisome, I would say.”

I posed the obvious question, “But if he didn’t hit his wife, there would be no justification for any assault, so no assault, surely? And how would the visitor fellow know an assault had happened? Does he know the wife, or has Glasgow’s wife been talking to other women and the word got to the visitor, who has assumed a vigilante position in retribution? It all seems so utterly complicated.”

“These are all rhetorical questions, Robert. We have no idea of any answers, but I am hoping that having admitted to me in effect that he has hit his wife in the past, he may now be reflecting on his behaviour, and may cease the abuse. That is what I have prayed about, I can tell you.”

“Thank you for that intercession, Minister. I sincerely hope that your prayers are answered.”

That same day, Phyllis was informed of a discovery inside one of the storage areas rented by dealers. It was a rolled-up sleeping bag, unobtrusively stuffed into the bottom drawer of a beautiful early 18th century walnut chest of drawers with turned bun feet, as the dealer and Phyllis insisted in its description. Asked why the bottom drawer, the dealer replied that the bottom drawer of a unit is the one least likely to be opened by a possible customer. Usually the top drawer is sufficient to check the inside condition of them all.

With the understandably high price of this item, it was not surprising that it remained in the upper storage area. A picture of it had appeared in the dealer’s catalogue, so he felt it was best left in a protected space and not on display where it might be marred by damaging fingerprints or a child’s carelessness. He certainly did not expect it to be used for simple storage of a sleeping bag. Its discovery was due to an enquiry by a possible client about the unit, so the dealer thought it best to check it over thoroughly before bringing it down for personal viewing in a few days. He was asked by the Market owner, i.e. Phyllis, to keep it rolled, tied with string, and left in the middle of the floor of his storage section to be found by its owner.

Phyllis said she afterwards thought about the invisible intruder of recent times, and remarked on it to Janet during their afternoon tea-break.

“Makes sense, I suppose,” she remarked. “Spending the night in here, you’d need some place to sleep; sort of camping out ... so a sleeping bag would be the best bet. Using the showers late at night, or early in the morning would fit as well. Any sign of an alarm clock?”

“Never thought of that, Janet. I’ll ask around. If someone’s stall has a clock with an alarm setting, it might be sort of borrowed overnight.”

“Oh, dear,” exclaimed Janet. “We have a clock at the catering section, so that we can warn customers it is almost closing time. It has a timer that tings ten minutes before closing. For all I know, it might be getting purloined overnight. As long as it is in its place in the morning, we would never know if it had been taken overnight.”

“Intriguing thought, Janet,” Phyllis said. “To my mind, the intruder has everything planned to the nth degree, so as not to be found by anyone. To be that organised, they cannot be stupid.”

“I’ll grant you that. Their minor thefts from our food and drink supplies indicate a wish not to be noticed, so that goes along with your other observations. If we can catch the person on camera, that would help a lot.”

The wedding between George and Alice was imminent, and Naomi seemed worried and anxious to get all her duties done right; concerned that she might get something wrong. Sandy took her aside and went over all the tasks of a bridesmaid and assured Naomi that she was definitely on track for a wonderful performance on the day.

And so it happened. Naomi wore a pale pink dress that in design more or less matched Alice’s dazzling white wedding dress, and no-one thought anything of it. She performed all her duties to perfection, and got a kiss from Alice when they lined up after the service to greet the attendees. Not to be outdone, George gave Naomi a kiss as well, and that was the seal of approval that she sought.