Pilgrim Soul by Gordon Ferris Read Free Book Online Page B

work.’
    Come Wednesday, I wrapped my coat round me, pulled down my hat and set off into driving rain. Last week’s gales were heralds. We were in that suicidal period between autumn and full winter when the Westerlies just sweep over Glasgow each day and dump the Atlantic on us. Galdakis lived on Bedford Street, south of the river. I would have hailed a taxi but Sandy said the paper was economising. I found a tram to get over Glasgow Bridge and then trudged through the puddles across Laurieston. I was curious to meet a man so handy with a knife. I also had one niggling thought that kept cropping up: why was Galdakis robbed in the week, and not on the Sabbath like all the rest?
    Early morning and the broad streets were cleansed of people. Some sheltered under shop awnings in the forlorn hope of the rain easing off for just five minutes. The house I was looking for was above a haberdashery. I found the door and walked into the dank entry, shaking the rain off like a terrier. Galdakis was on the first floor. I left wet footprints and a trail of drips all the way up the stairs. I took off my hat, bashed it against my coat, put it back on and rapped on his door. It took a couple of knocks before I heard movement. The door edged open. A thickset face peered at me, the eyes wary and on a level with mine.
    ‘Mr Galdakis?’
    ‘Police? I seen police.’
    I took a gamble. ‘I work with Inspector Todd.’ Which was almost true.
    The eyes kept flicking at me and behind me. ‘What you want?’
    ‘A few more questions, please. Just five minutes.’
    The door swung open and he stood back to let me in, framed in the open door of the room he’d just left. I caught a glimpse of tossed bedding. He wore a stained singlet and trousers. His belly bulged above and below a broad leather belt. Ahead was a short dingy corridor leading to a closed door. ‘Go in front,’ he said. I stepped past him, my nostrils twitching at the heavy smell of sweat and boozy breath. He followed me. I felt my shoulders hunch as he marched close behind me, his heavy boots clumping on the lino.
    ‘In here?’ I asked.
    ‘Yes.’
    I pushed at the door and entered an icy sitting room. I stood dripping and shivering on the lino. A wooden chair lay against the wall, its legs snapped and twisted. A pair of sagging armchairs had been pushed to one side against a small sideboard. A chunky metal safe had pride of place on it. Temptation enough for a ‘gasman’ to break his habit and come calling during the week, thinking Galdakis was at his market stalls. He must have been watching the house.
    The dark-patterned wallpaper was stained along one side as though a bucket of water had been thrown at it. The fireplace was barren and cold. There was one grimy window with half-pulled curtains. Through the dirt and the gap I could see a desolate back green.
    Suddenly I didn’t want to be in this space. I moved closer to the wall. My heart was racing again. Flu?
    I turned to Galdakis and inspected him properly. A big man, about my height but heavier. A sullen Slav face in which the eyes glittered and probed. Though his paunch strained at the broad brown belt, it was clear that he was no fat pushover. The shoulders and chest spoke of hurling bales of hay high up on to wagons or wrestling yaks. I took off my hat and perched it on the mantelpiece to drip. I pulled out my notebook and pencil. He looked at them warily as if they were guns.
    ‘This is where you fought the intruder?’
    A grin crept over his broad face. He nodded.
    ‘What time was this?’
    ‘I told Inspector. ’Bout nine in morning.’
    ‘You’d gone to work?’
    ‘I come back. Forgot keys for chain on my stalls.’ He was slowly pacing past me, examining the wall, glancing round the room, as though he was thinking of buying it. Or enjoying the reminiscence. He was moving silently now, his big feet seeking out each step like a bad actor in a pantomime. Behind you! cry the kids.
    ‘Did you know the man? Had