Gallowglass (17 page)

THIRTY-FIVE

I
left Airchie on his third cup of tea and his second fried-egg roll. I walked out and jumped on a tram. I was too tired to walk and thought I stood as much chance of being spotted and recognised in the street as among the cloud of smoke on the top deck with the red-eyed early risers. I was just another worker slumped in his seat, fag in mouth. I rode down to the Clyde along the Broomielaw to Anderston Quay. Eric was waiting for me. I sidled on board and fell exhausted into my bunk. I slept like the dead man I was supposed to be until noon.

When I at last stirred and clambered on deck I found the
Lorne
anchored down by Dumbarton and rocking on the tide. Eric was sitting quietly smoking his pipe and reading
Great Expectations
. I liked omens. He made us both a late breakfast and I began collating my notes with Airchie’s. By late afternoon, Eric and I were sitting on the deck sharing a pot of tea.

‘So what now, Brodie?’

I touched the pile of notes in front of me.

‘I’ve got proof that Gibson was stealing from his own bank. I don’t know if he was in deep trouble and trying to dig himself out of it or simply building a pension pot. A big pot.’

‘Solid proof?’ He pointed at the papers.

‘The problem is how do I explain how I got the information? These won’t count unless we can get the actual bank ledgers in front of a judge and jury.’

‘What about your pals at you-know-who?’

‘I can tell them what I’ve found and what to look for. But they’re terrified of causing a commotion with all the inevitable questions and public outcry.’

‘And it disnae explain why Gibson was kidnapped?’

I shook my head. ‘We don’t know who these companies are. But even if we did, why bump him off?’

‘Failing to pay his debts?’

‘There didn’t seem to be any shortage of funds. Gibson had a whole bank to plunder and he seemed to have senior staff in his pocket to cover his tracks.’

‘So who murdered him? And why?’

‘I have no idea. There were entries up to a few days before the kidnap. Why kill the golden goose? Was he going to come clean and face the music? Did his wife know? And if so, did she set me up? Was Sheila trying to get rid of her philandering husband? Did she know about the lovely Pamela?’

‘Any news from your man watching her?’

‘I need to check with Wullie. And Sam. She’s getting in touch with Inspector Duncan Todd. Can you drop me at the Govan Ferry this evening? South bank. I’ve called for a confab. Wullie and Stewart live in Summertown Road.’

‘Are you sure they’re not being watched?’

‘Why? I’m dead, remember. There’s nothing further to be gained from watching my pals.’

After Eric dropped me off that evening I found a box and left a message at Harry’s office. Two minutes later he phoned back and I gave him the highlights of what Airchie and I had uncovered. I thought he’d have been more pleased.

‘Christ, Brodie, what a God-almighty mess!’

I was miffed. ‘But at least the bank’s not likely to go under.’

‘A small blessing. Assuming you haven’t missed anything? But it’s hell down here. Our political masters have been climbing the walls. I’ve been in the office all weekend and the
phones have been running red hot. If news gets out about this debacle and causes a banking crisis this week, the political fallout for Attlee could bring down the administration. It’s what Churchill and the opposition have been waiting for.’

‘Surely the news can be contained?’

‘You think so? Imagine the headlines if it gets out that the kidnapped and murdered head of Scottish Linen was also pilfering his own bank? Filling his boots with cash from Lend-Lease or whatever. Can you imagine the speculation about
why
he was killed? Who would believe us if we said the bank was basically sound? It smacks of poor supervision by the B. of E. at the very least.’

‘So it’s time you moved in, Harry. Got your hands on those books.’

The pause said it all.

‘The last thing my masters will authorise is a raid by the Security Service. It will get out. The press will crucify them. Confidence would drop through the floor and cause the very run they’re trying to avoid. And the Yanks won’t lend.’

I exploded. ‘What the hell more can I do, Harry? You’ve got enough to impound all their accounts and show the Government has a grip. A five-minute embarrassment. And for me – it provides a possible motive for Gibson’s kidnap and murder.’

‘But it doesn’t really, does it?
Au contraire
, in fact. Gibson’s death makes no sense. It just suggests there’s more dirty business undisclosed.’

I had to admit he was right. ‘So what
can
you do? Apart from sitting on your backside and agonising while I take all the risks?’

‘Brodie, I’m sorry. I can understand your frustration. Let’s first investigate who owns these companies and what they’re up to. I’ll do a bit of trawling and call you tomorrow. Same time, same call box?’

‘Try to get your bosses to see sense. This will come out one way or the other. The sooner the better.’

‘You’d never make a politician, Brodie. Their first reaction is the
later
the better. On someone else’s watch.’

‘I can’t keep up this game much longer, Harry. It’s only a matter of time before I’m rumbled.’

‘I’ll press your case, Brodie.’

‘And Airchie’s. He’s earned that medal.’

Stewart welcomed me at his tenement flat door. The smart and spotless McAllister interior belied the dilapidated shared stairwell and the rundown tenement itself. Sam was already waiting for me and got up and hugged me, then drew back, wrinkling her nose.

‘You smell of fish.’

‘So would you, if you borrowed Eric’s sweater.’

Then she hugged me again. ‘I could get used to it.’

‘Masochist.’

Wullie coughed. ‘Should we leave you twa alane?’

‘Fine by me,’ I said.

‘Unhand me, you hairy brute.’

‘Fickle, fickle. Right. To business. Let me tell you about my night-time escapades with a crooked accountant.’

At the end of my tale, Wullie and Stewart were laughing. Sam was frowning, her hand up at her mouth.

‘You could have been killed on that roof.’

‘Tricky for you. A second burial.’

‘Don’t say that, Douglas! Anyway, I hope you wore gloves?’

I sighed. ‘I thought about it too late. I’m new to the life of the cat burglar.’

‘Your prints will be everywhere. And they’ve got some nice recent ones to match them up with.’

‘Remind me. Won’t they have thrown them away after they closed the case?’

She shook her head. ‘They keep them for years. Just in case.’

‘In case I’m not dead?’

‘In case you’ve done other bad things. You said you stole dungarees and left a bit of sacking on the roof. And at least two people saw you as you walked out. You’re hard to ignore: a big man with a red beard. Smelling of fish.’

‘I’ve worked with these guys. They’re not that good. They’re certainly not that quick.’

She eyed me quizzically. ‘But they’ll get there. Eventually. Old bloodhounds.’

‘Old poodles, mostly. But you’re right, Sam. Time’s running through my fingers. So, Wullie, what news from Weasel?’

‘Thought you’d never ask. Seems that most days the widow Gibson takes herself off for half a day at a time in her big car.’

‘Shopping? Lunch with her pals?’

‘Weasel can hardly follow on his broomstick. But two or three times now, he’s been down the road a bit and the big car swept past him, heading west.’

‘Away from Glasgow? Ayr? A paddle in the sea at Troon?’

‘Nae sign of a bucket and spade.’

I thought for moment. ‘Sam, could I borrow your car tomorrow? We need to see what she’s up to.’

‘You’re not serious? You’re taking enough risks coming here.’

‘I’m running out of time. I need to make some real progress. On which topic, I think it’s time I met Duncan and put him out of his misery. If he’s still in it, in fact?’

‘Oh, he’s upset all right. But he might be even more upset at meeting your ghost.’

‘I need him to hurry up his investigations – if he’s doing any.’

‘It might stop him all together. What if he turns you in?’

‘Duncan? You think he would?’

‘He’s a policeman. You’re not only suspected of murder, but you’re part of a grave conspiracy.’

‘That’s terrible, Sam.’

Wullie chuckled. ‘Ah thocht it wisnae bad, Brodie. But Sam’s right. Ye cannae trust the polis. If you show yersel’ to
him, and he disnae clap the cuffs on you, and then it all goes horribly wrong, then he’s for the high jump.’

‘I know, I know, Wullie. But I’ve got to raise the tempo. Frankly, I don’t care if the British banking system collapses and we’re all back to a barter economy. But I still have no clue why Gibson was shot, and any day now I could be back inside facing a trial for his murder.’

Wullie nodded sympathetically. ‘By the by, Brodie, Elspeth came up with another nugget about Gibson. I don’t know if it’s important, but it’s about his younger brother, Mungo.’

‘I told you Fraser was sending money to Mungo’s account. But is Mungo still around? He wasn’t mentioned in any of the funeral write-ups.’

‘As far as we know. You’ll recall both boys were brought up in Maybole. Their mother died young and the father took another woman. But what wasn’t said publically was that there was a lot of drinking and rowing. Faither a bit of an alkie. Some of the rammies ended up in the local papers. Fraser came out of it OK. Probably with a wee bit too much drive and ambition for other folk’s good. But Mungo went off the rails. Followed in his parents’ staggering footsteps. He shows up a couple of times in the court section of the papers just before the war. Drunk, disorderly, fighting the polis. Then silence. Any interviews with Sir Fraser got cut off whenever the topic strayed on to his past.’

‘The man had a lot of secrets. Mungo doesn’t sound relevant but you never know. Every family has a black sheep. Any way of tracking him down?’

‘Elspeth is a wee terrier, as you know. She’s casting her net far and wide among the newspaper archives and death registers.’

‘Why’s she doing this? Does she know I’m alive? You haven’t told her, have you, Wullie?’

‘Not a bit. Ah think she’s been a secret admirer of yours. You and her were the only yins wi’ a degree in the entire office. She disnae believe you did it. Nobody in the newsroom does.’

‘Strange leap of faith. A higher education doesn’t lead to higher morality. Often the opposite. But let’s see if we can prove her right. Sam, can you set things up for tomorrow? I mean the car and Duncan?’

She looked at me for a long moment. ‘I’ll pick you up at nine.’

‘I thought you were in the middle of a trial?’

‘The prosecution asked for and was given a stay. I’m free as a bird. If Lady Gibson sticks to her pattern, we’ll see where she goes. We’re going to feel stupid if she just likes the sound of seagulls.’

‘I don’t want you at risk, Sam.’

‘What’s more risky? Sheila Gibson looking in her mirror and seeing another woman, or a hulking great Viking who looks awfully familiar?’ I’ll drive; you keep low in the back. It’s either that or I just follow her myself.’

Sometimes there’s no point in arguing. In truth, I’ve learned there’s never any point in trying to deflect Samantha Campbell.

THIRTY-SIX

S
am picked me up on the dot of nine on the corner of Highland Lane, on the south side of the Govan Ferry. I slumped down in the back seat. She wheeled the Riley round and headed south down through Pollokshaws towards Whitecraigs. Her blonde hair was hidden by a scarf. I could see her eyes in the mirror.

‘I called Duncan this morning. He’s meeting me tonight at eight. And you, of course. Though he doesn’t know it.’

‘Where?’

‘Home turf. I’ll leave the back gate and door open for you. Try not to look even more like a burglar. Wear a decent hat. You know what the neighbours are like.’

The contrast between the smog-streaked industrial estates of Govan and the leafy lanes of Whitecraigs would be enough to make Churchill turn socialist. I peered out from my back seat over Sam’s shoulder, directing her towards the Gibson residence. It was coming up to nine thirty and we parked round the corner once we’d decided which way she’d need to come if she were heading west. The streets were as quiet as a Sunday. Other than our Riley, no cars were parked on the road; all tucked away in their private drives, or outside their city offices.

I’d caught sight of Weasel Watkins loitering in the next street. I wondered what he’d do if he encountered a real corporation sweep. Have a fight? Brooms for swords, dustbin
lids for shields? Maybe Weasel had been taken on by the council?

By ten we were beginning to wonder if we’d been unlucky. That today wasn’t the day Mrs Gibson went for a ride. Just then we heard the low rumble of a big engine. I ducked as the Humber swept past the end of our road. I didn’t have to say anything to Sam. She was already trying to start her Riley. The engine turned and groaned but didn’t catch. I leaped out, cranked the handle, the engine caught and we set off after the Humber, catching sight of her well down the Ayr Road. We closed up and then sat behind at a safe distance.

We got out on to the main road running towards Kilmarnock and on to Ayr and points west and south. A few more cars joined us so that we became unnoticeable without losing sight of Lady Gibson. We trundled on via the towns and villages of Ayrshire, as if on a
tour d’horizon
of my youth. Through the cross in the centre of Kilmarnock; maybe on our way back we could call in for tea with my mother in Bonnyton. On down through Symington and Monkton and into the outskirts of Ayr.

Had I not been so focused on the car in front I might have spent more time admiring the handsome town and wishing I lived nearer the sea on one of the wide streets of stone houses. But then I’d have been cheek by jowl with bed and breakfast places and overrun by trippers and holidaymakers. Come to that, weren’t we closing in on the Glasgow Fair, when the city shut down and Glasgow hoi polloi decamped ‘doon the watter’?

The Humber was about two hundred yards ahead with one car between us. Gradually we left the suburbs behind and began heading along the Dalmellington Road. The signs pointed to Hollybush and Patna. Ahead and on the right I could see a prominent stand of grey buildings. Suddenly I thought I knew where Lady Gibson was going. Sure enough,
the Humber stuck out its flashing indicator arm and swung through the high entrance pillars that punctured a long high wall. As we slowed, we saw the car crunching up a long gravel driveway towards a clutch of forbidding stone buildings perched on a hillock. A large sign at the gatepost made its fell business clear: ‘Ailsa House, Ayrshire Lunatic Asylum’. The loony bin. Or just ‘Ailsa’ in these parts: a neat and euphemistic shorthand.

Sam pulled up at the entrance to a field a little further on. We rolled the windows down to drink in the rough country air.

I asked, ‘Is she getting some outpatient treatment? Trying to get over her husband’s death?’

‘Possible. Or she’s visiting some daft old auntie of hers. There’s plenty of those to go around.’

‘How do we find out?’

‘Easy. I’ll go and ask.’

‘Just like that?’

‘Why not? I’ll leave you somewhere safe. Downwind certainly. Then I’ll drive up in my smart motor car, in my smart twin-set, with my smart accent and ask if Lady Gibson’s having a breakdown. Or is it just her auntie Peggie.’

I looked at her cool eyes. Of course she could. They’d be jumping to do her bidding.

‘And then what? What if they tell you who she’s seeing? What use will that be?’

‘Depends who it is. I’ll ask to see them too. Tell them I’m from the church. Saving sinners or something.’

‘You’re as daft as me.’

‘Oh, Douglas, are you only just recognising that?’

‘Maybe we’re on the wrong side of that wall.’ I nodded towards the tall stone bulwarks around the asylum.

‘But who would you trust on this side?’

‘Fair point. What if they let you see the inmate? What would you say to her or him?’

‘I have absolutely no idea.’

‘Oh good, I like a well-thought-out plan. In the meantime, let me buy you an ice-cream and a ride on a donkey.’

‘You know how to spoil a girl, don’t you?’

We drove back into Ayr and on to the promenade. Though the day was cloudy and a westerly was whipping the waves up into spume, the long stretch of beach was packed with yelling kids running wild and stoic adults huddled behind striped windbreaks. Primus stoves hissed under tin kettles. Sandwiches were spread with marge, paste and sand and devoured anyway. The sun sent surreptitious rays through the clouds to fry fair Celtic skin. I wondered briefly at the crowds on a Tuesday. Of course. It was the second week of July. The factories were out. The schools were closed. Since time immemorial, it
was
the Glasgow Fair.

Sam and I parked and walked down on to the sand. We were a contrasting sight. She in her classy outfit and me in my hand-me-down corduroys, open shirt and full beard. A lady slumming it with a passing matelot from a tramp steamer. But no one was looking or caring. For two weeks they were out of the mills and factories, in the fresh air, by the seaside. Money saved the whole year with the Co-op for candy floss and dancing, beer and ice-cream, singsongs in the pubs and laughter. How I envied them. But I pulled myself up and recalled my determination to enjoy every sunny day as if it were the last. The same could apply to cloudy ones, surely.

I took Sam’s hand and dragged her down on to the pale red sand, so fine and soft that after a few steps she had to take her shoes off and go barefoot. She sat, pulled down her stockings and stuck them in her cardigan pocket, along with her scarf. I rolled my trousers up, stuck my socks in my shoes and slung my shoes round my neck. We ran towards the sea like kids, laughter catching in our chests. We splashed through the first sandy pools and Sam shrieked at the cold. Then we
hit the sea proper and jumped and cavorted like – I suppose – lunatics. Certainly five-year-olds.

We settled down to a walk along the low waves. The freezing water lapped at our ankles until it convinced us it was really quite warm. We stole glances at each other, not needing to say anything, just holding hands. And we looked out to sea, to Arran, the great slab of rock that dominates the seascapes along the entire Ayrshire coast.
The Sleeping Warrior
.

I wondered if Sam was remembering last year and her own kidnap and my mad chase, and how the wheels had turned and how we were now using the kidnap boat as my safe house. In celebration of our survival, I stopped, turned her towards me and – not caring who was looking – kissed her full on the mouth. Her struggle was brief and only for show. Then we were melting into each other until a wee band of hooligans ran past yipping and whistling,
Gie her a kiss frae me, mister!
So I did.

We walked back up to the sea wall and sat down with our backs against it until hunger drove us up on to the esplanade. We spurned the ice-cream van – for the moment – and queued for fish suppers with all the rest. The broad Glasgow accents spilled over us like a rough benison. Then we sat on a bench and ate the fish piping hot and vinegary, and licked our fingers. In between salty sucking we refined our plan – such as it was – for the visit to the asylum. We splashed our gritty faces in a fountain, and combed our hair in the car. We shook and rubbed off the sand between our toes and donned shoes. I made myself as tidy as possible given my start point. Then we drove off, with me behind the wheel, to inspect a madhouse.

I stopped at the entrance to the asylum and checked the Humber had gone. Sheila Gibson was a person of routine. I drove straight up the drive and parked in front of the sign to reception. Sam checked herself in the mirror, dabbed on fresh
lipstick, and got out. As she walked up the steps and in through the front door, I turned the car round and backed up. I’m not sure what we were expecting but I was ready for a quick getaway. I rolled down the window and waited. When Sam didn’t come straight out, it seemed safe to assume she’d found something or someone of interest. She appeared after ten minutes, got in the car and I drove off.

‘It’s Mungo Gibson. He’s an alcoholic. Apparently his brother’s death tipped him into a big session and he was brought here to dry out.’

‘Brought here? By Lady Gibson?’

‘His caring sister-in-law.’

‘A sister-in-law of mercy?’

‘So it seems. Doing the right thing, it appears. The matron was very helpful. I said I was a church visitor and knew the family. That I’d been hoping to catch my friend Sheila before she left.’

‘Did you see him?’

She shook her head. ‘Matron apologised for not being able to let me talk to him. He’d just been given some electric shock therapy and needed rest. Sheila had come to give her permission.’

‘Ouch. I thought he just needed drying out?’

‘Apparently it’s not just weaning him off the booze. They’re concerned about long-term damage. There are signs of underlying depression.’

Another prisoner of his youth. I suppose we all are, to a certain extent. One brother used his tainted childhood to dominate and succeed. The other turned to drink to cope with his demons. I don’t know what I’d expected, but I was disappointed. I’d hoped there might have been some new angle to come out, some explanation for Sheila Gibson denying me. But it just seemed a dead end. A woman – whether from affection or for public approval – doing her family duty by looking after her brother-in-law at a time of grief and upheaval.

‘Did you find out how often he’s been in and out of Ailsa, Sam?’

She shook her head. ‘I didn’t ask. Is that important?’

‘I don’t know. I’m looking for patterns. And where the patterns cross over.’

As we headed back across the Fenwick Moors to Glasgow I began mentally preparing myself for my collision with Duncan Todd this evening. I found it hard to concentrate. I’d gone down another dead end and was no closer to unravelling this sorry tale. Just over a month ago, I’d been full of optimism that my life had taken an upward turn. Instead, I’d thrown the dice and landed on a snake.

It was too risky for Sam to take me straight home with her in the daylight. I’d wait till it was dark. She dropped me back off at Govan and I waved her goodbye, all the time wishing we could go back and play at sandcastles on the beach.