Gallowglass (12 page)

TWENTY-FIVE

A
fter my session with Harding and walking back to the station I was sorely tempted to drop in on Castle Gibson to have a wee tête-à-tête with the chatelaine. But much as I’d enjoy seeing her expression, she didn’t strike me as someone easily persuaded to rewrite her statement. It would be the end of me without any proof of anything. However, I couldn’t resist a small diversion to check on Weasel Watkins.

It was a ten-minute walk to the wide leafy street I’d last seen from the back of Sheila Gibson’s Humber. That was in another life; was I now in the afterlife? Her house was about two hundred yards from the end of the street and I could only make out the gateposts with the lounging lions. The street was empty and I was about to find a phone box and call Wullie to tell him Weasel was absent from his post without leave when a drooping figure appeared from a cul de sac halfway along. He was dragging a big broom as though it was a ball and chain. I smiled and thought about walking up to him and having a wee blether. Would he remember me? Not worth the risk.

I got the train back to Glasgow, slid on my specs and clamped my hat on to walk through Central Station. Even so, it was amazing how furtive and vulnerable I felt out in the open. There was no price on my head, no wanted posters up – and none would have my present image – but the concourse seemed full of policemen with searchlight eyes. All it would
take for the hunt to start up would be for me to run into someone who knew me.

I had a couple of hours to kill before the Eric McLeod river taxi service showed up. I needed to lie low till then. It would be hard work. I was conspicuous in my suit and red beard, not to mention standing taller than my average Glasgow cousins. I needed to be somewhere a man could linger unnoticed. I knew just the place, and I could makes good use of my time. While I’d been incarcerated I’d hardly seen a newspaper. Partly I didn’t want to. Partly Sam didn’t want me to. Partly the cops didn’t provide a daily delivery service.

I set off for the Mitchell Library and enjoyed stretching my legs up and down the hillocks of the city centre. Entering any library always feels like coming home. I went into the reading room and settled down with back issues of the papers covering the period of the kidnap. It was a salutary experience.

Apart from the
Gazette
, which began in outrage and denial and became more circumspect as evidence mounted against me, all the other dailies were as good as marching me on to the scaffold for my foul murder of this poor banker who’d been held in such high esteem by his friends and colleagues. My own black and white photo blazed out from the front pages. Fortunately it was from ten years ago and I was in police uniform. Sangster must have unearthed it from the Tobago Street files. He really seemed to have it in for me. The Douglas Brodie of 1937 looked so young, so very young. Keener and less world weary. But back then I hadn’t been to war.

It was pointless, I knew, but as I read, I felt consumed by the sheer injustice of my treatment, despite the festering worry about the gap in my memory. Like waking in the morning with a towering hangover and no recollection of how the night ended. Just a nagging guilt. About something.

I felt sick at what my mother might have read about me, and what her neighbours would have thought about me. And said to her. In poor homes – and my mother had the pension
of a sparrow to live on, supplemented when I could by the odd ten bob slipped on to her mantelpiece – sometimes all you had was your good name. They’d taken that from her and my dad. And me, come to that. I made a vow then and there that someone would pay.

I realised my heart and head were pounding and that it showed in my rustling of the paper and my tsks and pahs. Some of my fellow readers were glancing at me. I got hold of my emotions and turned to the text. I paid particular attention to what the police said about the kidnap and killing of Gibson, and how they’d known to go to Marr Street. A police spokesman said that it had been the result of fine police intelligence. An oxymoron if ever there was one. What they meant was a snitch, a clype, a stoolie had whispered in someone’s ear. Whose ear? Who clyped? Was Lady Gibson involved? If so, how? The papers were silent.

They claimed to have arrived at the scene of the murder in Marr Street shortly after the dirty deed and found the merciless and ruthless killer holding a smoking gun over the body. They’d arrested the suspect – me – and charged him with kidnapping and murder, claiming that my fellow kidnappers had fled out of the back entry. No mention of a ransom being paid. Lies or fantasies!

But flicking forward through to the present day I could find no mention of the police looking for my fellow conspirators. Conveniently, I was dead and I was the ringleader; that seemed to be all that mattered to them. It fair made a man feel unloved.

I skipped quickly past the eulogies and photos of Gibson’s funeral. There must have been a couple of hundred mourners – a couple of hundred more than mine. I noted that the widow’s plight had been softened by a large life insurance payout. Most papers had the same photo of the dead man all dressed up for business – presumably an official one from the bank. Even in black and white, the power of the man’s person
ality shone from the eyes and could be seen in the set of the jaw. I stared hard at the image, until it became overlaid with my memory of a face with a hole in the forehead and eyes of milky glass. I returned the papers and sat for a while quietly mulling. I could do with having my own snitch, someone inside the force getting me answers. The clear choice was Inspector Duncan Todd, drinking pal and fellow ranter against bigotry, cronyism and corruption, but how far could I really trust him? I’d accused him of being more concerned about his pension and position than his pal’s life. Unfair, but a reflection of how low I was at the time. But I still wasn’t certain whether he sided more with the arguments of his boss, Sangster, than mine. And, to put it mildly, it was asking a great deal for a serving officer to act as informer for an accused murderer – a dead one at that.

There was one route in. Risky, and I didn’t like playing this particular card. But these were desperate times. Needs must. I left the Mitchell and headed down to the Clyde. I had to rendezvous with the
Lorne
and ask Eric to make a call for me.

TWENTY-SIX

A
fter Eric had left his message we pottered down the Clyde and moored up for the rest of the afternoon and early evening. During our wait we talked.

‘I’m sorry you’re having to hang around so much, Eric. What do you do with yourself?’

‘Repairs. It’s good to catch up. Ropes fray, sails rip, varnish dries and cracks. Always something on a boat. Oh, and I’ve been doing a wee bit of reading. I hope you don’t mind?’

‘My pile of Dickens? Help yourself.’

‘It’s rare enough to get the chance.’

We’d never talked about his life before the war. I asked him.

‘Och, a bit of this, a bit of that. Always messing about in boats, I suppose. That’s what you do in Skye. Either that or sheep. I don’t like sheep.’

‘Spoiled for choice. Then you joined up?’

He shook his big hairy head. ‘I came down to Glasgow looking for work before the war. Laboured in the yards for a couple of years, then joined the Black Watch. I’d met Mairi six months before, at the dancing in ’39. She’s Orkney but her folks lost their holding and came south.’ He stopped and stood erect from his rope coils. ‘They lived in Clydebank.’ His eyes were distant.

‘The Blitz? In ’41?’

He nodded. ‘Mairi had a wee job as a waitress. She couldn’t
get home that night. When she did, the next day, the house was gone. Everything. Everyone. She wrote to me. When I had some leave I came back and we got married.’

‘Then off to war again?’

‘Like you, Brodie.’ He smiled. ‘North Africa with the 51
^st
.’ He shook his head. ‘A long time ago. I’m not sure the world’s any saner now. Look at what’s happened to you.’

The long summer night and the cloudless sky meant we had little or no protection from curious eyes as we sailed up alongside the pier at the Govan Ferry. I crouched below and watched Eric glide in alongside the steps just abandoned by the little ferry. As we nudged the pier, the lone woman waiting at the top of the flight stepped neatly down and on to our deck. This was her first time back on board since she’d been abducted, knocked out and bashed around in the bilges of the
Lorne
by mad Gerrit Slattery. It was asking a lot of any woman. But not – apparently – of Samantha Campbell. She stepped down into the cabin and into my arms.

‘Stop it. You’re tickling me, you big hairy oaf!’

‘I thought you liked it.’

She pushed back from me and eyed me up.

‘Sort of. It’s so – so different. Like being carried off by a Viking.’

‘Every girl’s dearest fantasy.’

‘Not mine!’

‘I can make it real.’

‘Behave yourself. Eric’s just there.’

‘I can close the door.’

Her eyes were shining with the temptation. But—

‘Not here, Douglas. Not here.’

I nodded and smiled and let her go with a chaste kiss on the forehead.

‘Sit down, Sam. I’m sorry to drag you back to this – this scene of the crime.’

‘It’s all right, really. I hardly remember a thing. Other than you boarding us like a pirate and rescuing me. Oh, and me throwing up. Lots of that.’ Her nose wrinkled with distaste. She looked around. ‘It’s different now. Better. Who’s the woman and the bairn? Eric’s, I hope? Unless you’ve something to tell me?’

She pointed at a small framed picture on the wall of a buxom blond lass, smiling and holding a baby.

‘Mairi, his wife. And Eileen, now two. They have another one, a boy. Three months. Called Dougie.’

A look crossed her face. We didn’t talk about it. But it was there, always there. Back in April she’d turned thirty-eight and it seemed fairly certain that we’d missed that tide in the affairs of men and women.

‘Bonny. Both of them.’

‘And when this is all over, you and I are going to sail over to Arran on this fine boat and have a wild ceilidh with Eric and Mairi. Agreed?’

‘It’s a date. In the meantime, what have you found out?’

I told her about my new identity. She pursed her lips at the forged warrant card but thought the rank was suitable. I told her about Gibson’s ruthlessness and recklessness as reported by Wullie and the Whitecraigs’ club secretary.

‘Who were these pals of his?’

I ran through the half-dozen names. She blinked at one. ‘Roddie Adams? I know him. One of the most sleekit, arrogant, slimy solicitors in Glasgow. Possibly Scotland.’

‘Don’t hold back, Sam. Tell me what you really think.’

She took a breath. ‘He’s been around twenty years. Built his own practice. Fancy office in Blythswood Square. Clientele mainly crooks and shifty businessmen. Twice – that I know of – up before the Law Society accused of malpractice. Money laundering was one. Pilfering from client accounts was another.’

‘But?’

‘He got off. They couldn’t prove it. But everybody knows he was guilty.’

‘“By your friends are you known.”’

‘It’s certainly a character reference. You’ve been busy. You and Wullie. What do you want
me
to do?’

‘Have you spoken to Duncan Todd since…?’

‘Your funeral? He came round the day after in an awful state. He’d wanted to come but we’d made it clear we didn’t want mourners. He was still blaming himself for doing nothing to help you, but Sangster was on the warpath. Nothing was going to get in Sangster’s way of getting you convicted. Duncan kept saying he should have disobeyed orders and done something. He was quoting the Bible: “For what is a man profited if he shall gain the whole world and lose his own soul?”’

‘Ouch. I don’t know if a job as detective inspector equates to the world but I know it meant a lot to Duncan. I should have told him. You didn’t, did you?’ I half wished she had. It seemed wretched leaving an old friend grieving for nothing. For no… body.

‘It was hard. I felt really bad. But I just couldn’t. Could I? Not while there’s a chance.’

I looked at her and loved her for her optimism. ‘Sam? What if there’s no chance? What if I can’t prove my innocence? And, Sam – what if I’m
not
? Not totally. I told you, I don’t have complete recall. That whack on the head. I could have shot him by accident.’

‘Don’t be so daft! You think you shot him while you were out cold? You would have to have been facing him to shoot him square in the temple at the exact second someone hits you on the back of the head. The alternative, that you shot him on purpose because you’d masterminded the kidnapping is just – just – ridiculous! Why would you? Why would
you
?’ She punched my chest. Hard. For punctuation.

‘OK, it’s OK. Sorry to raise it. But if I can’t find out what happened, if I can’t prove who did it… Then it’s back to a
condemned cell or life behind bars. I couldn’t take that, Sam. I just couldn’t.’ I grasped her shoulders with both hands and made her hold my gaze. ‘Look, Eric is prepared to sail the
Lorne
all the way to France. If it comes to it – if I can’t fix this – I’m going to take him up on his offer. Will you…? I mean would you…?’

‘Run away with an escaped murderer? A
penniless
escaped murderer? Just say the word. France would be nice. The weather’s much better. So’s the food. You speak the lingo and I took it for five years at school. Or maybe Spain— You’re breaking my ribs, Douglas!’

‘I was just saying thank you.’

‘Well, that’s nice, dear. Any chance of a drink round here?’

‘We’re down to our last mouthful of rum.’

‘Good job I brought this, then.’ She dug into her copious bag and pulled out a half-bottle of Johnnie Walker.

‘Samantha Campbell, have I asked you to marry me?’

‘Not lately. Do you have glasses on board or do we just pass the bottle?’

‘How about these?’ I picked up my specs and put them on.

‘My God. A short-sighted Viking. Now I’ve seen it all.’ When she’d stopped giggling, and I’d found tumblers and poured us each an inch, she asked, ‘What’s my task?’

‘I need someone inside Turnbull Street. Someone who knows what’s going on. Or can find out. I need Duncan’s help. Could you give Duncan a call and ask to meet him? Could you say you’re still trying to clear my name? As my advocate. Ask him to help you find out what really happened.’

She was nodding. ‘I was already thinking about it. It all stank, but I couldn’t get a thing out of Sangster and his crew. They seemed to have all their answers worked out in writing. I’d hoped to take him apart on the stand, but you up and died before we got to trial. I’ve been twice into the station to demand an interview but no one was available. I tried to get through to Malcolm McCulloch but his secretary kept
stalling me. Duncan is our best hope. What do you want me to find out?’

She took out a pad of lined paper and her silver propelling pencil, and sat poised for dictation. I reached over and touched her hand.

‘Sam, you’re amazing. Haven’t you ever doubted me?’

She looked down for a second, and then held my gaze. ‘Honestly? I have never had a single doubt about the kidnap and murder accusations. But for a wee while there, until I got my head round the actual dirty business itself, I thought it was vaguely possible that my own dear Douglas Brodie had thrown himself into the fray – righting wrongs as usual and careless for his own safety – and somebody got hurt. Accidentally. But the more I look at this the more it’s clear you were a stooge, a fall guy, a…’

‘An eejit? But you’d still run away with a penniless eejit?’

‘Shut up, Douglas. What do you want me to ask?’

Later, we dropped her off at Anderston Quay and, despite her protestations, I walked her up as close to Central Station as seemed sensible. I stood and watched until she climbed into a taxi and set off up Hope Street towards home. I wanted to run after her. For a moment I had a pang of self-pity that I should be denied her company this night. But unless I pulled my finger out and tracked down the men who’d set me up for a hanging, the loss of a night of passion was the least of my worries. I turned and walked back to the river, keeping to my new life in the shadows.