Gallowglass (18 page)

THIRTY-SEVEN

I
was pacing Sam’s dining room again. A caged beast, fighting echoes of my funeral day’s wait for the mourners to return and chastise me. As before, I’d slunk in the back gate just after dusk and was now bracing myself for Duncan’s appearance. I’d made my rendezvous with the phone box in time to take Harry’s call, but it was inconclusive. He had nothing to report about his masters’ intent or the background of the companies Airchie and I had identified.

So I was hoping Duncan would open up some new angles of research. But I still hadn’t worked out what to say to him. Or rather
how
to say it. Except in books by Algernon Blackwood there were few precedents for a man coming back from the dead for a rendezvous with an old pal. Especially when the pal was a detective inspector and the dead man was an alleged murderer. Maybe I should write it?

He was late. Sam was waiting upstairs in the front lounge, trying to catch up with court papers after her day playing hooky down at the beach. She’d been as anxious as me about this meeting, so that when I slipped in the house there’d been no mood for romance. No snatched passion. A brief hug and a brush of lips was all we could muster. Finally the doorbell went. I listened as she walked down the stairs, opened the door and exchanged greetings with Duncan.

‘It’s good of you to come round, Duncan.’

‘It’s nae bother, lassie. Ah’ll do all Ah can to help.’

‘Hang your coat and hat up, Duncan. Through here.’

I could picture her pointing to the coat-rack and Duncan dutifully hanging up his things. Then the policeman’s footsteps started towards me, and Sam was telling him:

‘Oh, Duncan, there’s someone I want you to meet.’

‘Oh aye. Who’s that?’

Sam pushed the door open. I was standing in the semidark. The only light was from a single table lamp on a side table behind me. Coming from the lit hall, Duncan would only see my outline at first. My beard was further camouflage. Sam stepped inside and held the door open. Duncan followed her in, squinting at me, backlit by the glare of the lamp as he walked forward. His hand was out, expecting to shake someone’s. But certainly not mine. Sam pointed at me.

‘I think you know each other.’

I came forward so the hall light was on my face.

‘Ah don’t think we’ve… Good Christ! It’s no’ . . .’

He wavered and I strode across and grabbed his hand.

‘Duncan, it is. It’s me, Brodie. Sit down, man. Sit down.’

Sam pushed a chair against the back of his knees. He sank down, still clinging to my hand. I pulled another chair round and sat facing him. He wrenched his hand from mine.

‘Whit sort of trickery is this? What
foolery
?’ He raised his arm and brushed it across his eyes. I thought he was going to strike me. I wouldn’t have minded. I rushed my words.

‘Duncan, it is me. We had to fake the death. The funeral. I had to find out who set me up. It was the only way.’

I was desperate to get my explanation out, but even as I said it, it sounded weak. Why had I done this to him?’

‘Wis it, indeed? So ye hud to make
me
think you were deid? Ye hud to put me through
that
? Could ye no’ have telt me?’

We were both panting and gulping for air.

‘I’m sorry, Duncan. I’m sorry. We didn’t want to put you in
an impossible situation. Not with Sangster breathing down your neck.’

‘So you put me in a different impossible situation?
Ah thocht you were deid, ya bastard!
Ah even said Hail Marys for your thrice-damned soul!’

His fists were clenched and he was on his feet above me. I thought he was about to pound me. He was welcome. I deserved it. I wouldn’t hit back. Our verbal flailing at each other was interrupted by the crash of a bottle and three tumblers hitting the table beside us. Sam’s voice cut through.

‘Here. The pair of you. Take a dram.’

Sam splashed generous amounts into the three glasses. She shoved one at Duncan and one at me. I lifted mine and raised it. Duncan looked poised between throwing that punch and walking out. Finally, thirst won out. He sat down slowly and picked up the glass.

‘Here’s tae us?’ I asked.

‘Bugger off.’

I persisted. ‘Wha’s like us?’

He didn’t respond for a second, then: ‘Damn few…’

‘And they’re a’ deid.’

We clinked glasses and we both took a big spluttering gulp.

He sat back and eyed me up and down. ‘But you’re no’, Brodie. No’ you, it seems.’

‘No, I’m not, Duncan. I’m truly sorry for not telling you.’

He was nodding. ‘Ah can see why. Sangster would have smelt it on me. He would’ve seen ma look. Ah cannae hide these things. Look at me noo. Up tae high doh.’

‘Don’t tell me you missed me?’

‘Don’t go bloody well fishing, Brodie.’

We tossed down our drinks to cauterise the hurt and embarrassment. Sam poured us fresh ones. Big ones. Then she went to the sideboard and brought over the ham sandwiches she’d made earlier. She knew men. Suddenly Duncan
and I were ravenous. The three of us made ourselves more comfortable round the table and I explained how Sillitoe’s man, Harry, had engineered my escape. Duncan kept shaking his head at the antics.

‘And now you’re scooting up and doon the Clyde like you were on a pleasure cruise?’

‘I’m thinking of moving on to a boat permanently. It’s like being a gypsy.’

‘A sea rover,’ said Sam. ‘A Gallowglass.’

‘Ah thocht the Gallowglass were Irish?’ said Duncan.

‘Scottish mercenaries. They were hired by the Irish to fight the Vikings, the English – anyone you care to name. You know the Irish and the Scots. The Gallowglass also fought with Robert the Bruce,’ Sam finished.

‘How do you know all this, hen?’

‘School. We did
Macbeth
. To death.’ She shuddered.

‘Fought wi’ the Bruce, did you say? Show me this fake warrant card again, Brodie.’

I pushed across my Edinburgh police card.

‘Ah should confiscate this. Ye couldnae have just been
Inspector
David Bruce. Ye hud to be a chief inspector?’

‘If you’re going to tell fibs, make them big ones. Rank has its privileges. Helps me get around.’

‘Until you’re caught. Christ, Brodie, are there any laws you huvnae broken?’

I lifted my glass. ‘Other than kidnap or murder? Running my own distillery? But I’m hard pushed to think of much else. Which reminds me. The Scottish Linen Bank. I had a wee keek at the ledgers.’

‘Did ye now? And how would you have achieved this wee keek?’

I explained my rooftop adventure without giving away Airchie’s name. There was no point in bringing him down with me if things went awry. Further awry. When I was finished Duncan just stared at me.

‘It micht have been easier if you’d just gone on pretending you were deid, Brodie. Or went and lived in the South of France. You and Sam. Why didn’t you?’

‘I’d miss the rain. But it’s a good question. It’s still an option.’ I raised an eyebrow at Sam. She raised hers back. ‘But there’s a killer or killers out there who’re getting away with it. Someone abducted and murdered Fraser Gibson and pinned it on me.’

‘Old police habits you cannae shake?’

‘Nothing as honourable. I don’t like being used, Duncan. They cleaned out my account; such as it was. And had me on remand for murder. Enough reasons to go after them?’

‘That rings true. And Ah’m sure masel’ you were set up.’

‘Tell me more.’

‘One o’ the good guys Ah know was talking to one of the less good guys, who knows the bad guys under Sangster.’

‘Sounds like a shaggy dog story, Duncan.’

‘It’s ca’d the grapevine. It’s how things work, Brodie. Remember your ain days at Tobago Street?’

‘Chinese whispers. Send three and fourpence, we’re going to a dance. What did you hear?’

‘They’re out to get you. And they’re pleased with themselves that they did.’

‘
They?
Sangster? Really? I may have tweaked his nose, but setting me up for murder?’

‘Sangster’s no’ the main one. He was happy enough to see you nabbed, but he didnae initiate it. I might go so far as to say he’s feeling a wee bit remorseful at how it all ended up.’

‘Tell him to lay some flowers on me.’

‘Douglas!’

‘Sorry, Sam. Sarcasm’s my way of dealing with hypocrisy. If not Sangster, who?’

‘That Ah don’t know. Someone higher up.’

‘God, don’t tell me it’s McCulloch? Sam and I were speculating. But I can’t see any motive. I turned down a couple
of job offers from him but that would hardly constitute grounds for getting rid of me. Besides, I did him some good service.’

‘Bosom buddies, Ah gather. No’ as far as Ah know. You never know wi’ heid bummers. They move in mysterious ways to get the top jobs and keep them. But Ah don’t have a name.’

‘Or a reason?’ asked Sam.

‘You’re right, hen. Motive’s always the first thing to look for. In this case, while they wurnae actually queuing up to demolish your boyfriend here, nor was Brodie short of folk wanting to get their ain back on him.’

‘But surely I wasn’t the target of it all? The whole confection. The kidnap, the ransom, the murder, the frame-up – they weren’t all to teach
me
a lesson?’

Sam ventured, ‘Opportunistic? Someone knew or heard about the kidnap and intervened?’

‘They would have had to move fast. Not like your average copper.’

‘Hie!’ said Duncan. ‘If it is a copper.’

‘Good God, have I become such a general nuisance?’

Sam waved a hand. ‘Duncan, don’t answer that. He’s fishing again. Talking of which, you’ve been kind enough not to comment.’

‘That he smells of herring? It’s nectar to me. I grew up in Saltcoats.’

I sighed. ‘Can we focus on who’s out to get me, and why? What else was growing on your grapevine?’

‘Money. There’s big money behind this. I don’t know where it’s coming from or who’s getting it, but it’s oiling wheels.’

‘Of a truck. And I’m getting run over. Can you keep your ear to the keyholes, Duncan?’

‘With renewed gusto. Ah might even see if Sangster’s conscience is bothering him enough to be confessional.’

‘Go canny. Don’t raise his suspicions. In the meantime, if you think it’s coming from outside the force, take a look at
these names.’ I pulled the folded note from my pocket and handed it to Duncan. ‘Two of them – Elliot and Adams – were cronies of Gibson at his golf club and yacht club. We’re waiting to find out if they were recipients of Gibson’s personal largesse through any of the companies he was funding with bank money. I passed them to Harry to check out. Recognise any of these blokes?’

‘Ah know the main pair.’ He stabbed the names. ‘Roddie Adams, first-choice solicitor for every ne’er-do-well in town. And Frankie Elliot, crook and wide boy. I ken him weil. He’d sell his granny in a whorehouse for tuppence a go. Sorry, hen.’

‘A vivid picture, Duncan,’ she said. ‘As you can imagine, I know Adams. I’ve seen him in action. Bent as a kirby grip. What does Elliot get up to? What’s his line?’

‘He’s been a thorn in our side for donkeys. Apart from the odd sabbatical at the Bar L. for running prostitutes it’s been hard to stick anything on him. His club’s a cover. Probably drugs. We know he runs floating gambling dens. Has a string o’ lassies that he hires oot by the hour. And has been known to fund some of the bigger jobs around town for a cut. Banks, building societies, department stores. You name it.’

‘Is it possible that Fraser Gibson was in hock to Elliot? Ran up a few gambling debts which Gibson was paying off via a wee borrow from his own bank?’

‘Could be.’

‘Then why would Elliot kill him?’

Duncan shook his head. ‘Sometimes these fellas don’t need a reason. Frankie Elliot has a temper. Hair trigger.’

‘So did Gibson, I hear.’

‘There ye go.’

‘But surely a bit short-sighted of Frankie to choke off his income stream. Maybe I should meet him. Deal with Adams later.’

Sam and Duncan looked at me as though I were mad. They were right. Mad as hell at being the marionette of a bunch of thugs.

‘If you want to put your heid in the lion’s mouth Ah know where you can find Frankie. He runs a club ca’d the Silver Dollar.’

‘What did you say?’

‘The Silver Dollar. A well-known drinking den and cesspit. Why?’

‘It’s one of the companies getting Fraser’s cash.’

‘There you go. But what would you do if you paid him a visit? Dive in, guns blazing?’

‘I’m trying to give them up. Just a wee chat.’

‘Why would he tell you anything?’ asked Sam.

‘A threat to his business? Do you think your average Glesga hard man would relish a visit from the Edinburgh fraud boys?’ I tapped my fake ID. ‘They might have a cosy relationship with the local constabulary who’d do anything for a quiet life, but they might well think Edinburgh would close down his operation, bang him up and throw away the key.’

‘Always assuming Elliot disnae blow your heid aff at first sight. When do you plan to visit?’

‘No time like the present. Who’s starring at the Silver Dollar tonight? Hope it’s Carmen Miranda.’

THIRTY-EIGHT

F
or all their aspirations, Glasgow clubs have no obvious counterparts in Las Vegas. Whereas the gangster clientele of the Strip have tastes that run to glitz, glamour and fizz, the hard men of the East End just want somewhere to drink without last orders getting between them and oblivion.

I’ve never been inside a Vegas or Paris club – something I planned to remedy if ever I got out of this mess. But I’ve seen the movies, and I’ve seen the inside of several of the Glasgow pretenders. A cursory glance suggests they’re of a different species. The American and French versions seem designed for high-class entertainment and convivial talk; the Scottish for getting blootered. But underneath, the two regimes perform the same service. Exchange the leather seats and cut-glass chandeliers for battered tables, wooden chairs and smoke-yellowed lights. Concentrate on the stained velvet curtain framing a six-by-six stage on which showgirl Elsie –
all the way from Maryhill
– will show off the tops of her nylons and her smoke-roughened voice. The men – and it’s mainly men – will ignore her. Their focus is on sinking the booze and reinforcing the camaraderie of the streets and the fitba’ stands.

Elsie and her sisters don’t make enough to pay for their stockings from singing alone, so they sell their smiles for drinks and tips at the men’s tables. Sometimes a smile isn’t enough and a more meaningful transaction takes place in which Elsie will spend fifteen minutes with her beau in a
back room for a fiver. Out of that fiver, Elsie gets to keep two pounds. The rest goes on the cuts to her pimp and the club’s proprietor. Out of the club slice, a further squeeze is made to provide for the local police charity. It’s a well-run market in which everyone gets what they want, as long as no one steps out of line or wants more than their fair share. Greedy cops or greedy girls can disrupt trade and lead to hard words and harder deeds until equilibrium is restored.

My leverage was to threaten the stability of the market in exchange for information. Surely that wasn’t too much to ask?

After Duncan left, I prepared for my big night out by having a bath and changing into a suit and tie. Studying me as I did up my tie, Sam assured me that even with the beard I might pass as having money to spend on a showgirl or two. But God help me if I did. I smiled. I like a hint of jealousy in a woman; shows they care.

I’d told Duncan
no guns
but that was to avoid upsetting him in advance. While I had no intention of marching in pistol in hand, blasting at anyone who moved, nor did I want to enter a den of iniquity bare naked. As I was unlikely ever to see my service revolver again I borrowed the Webley belonging to Sam’s dead father and stuck it into my waistband. The familiar heft of cold steel brought comfort and confidence.

Sam curbed the green-eyed monster long enough to drive me to within a street of the club. I gave her a quick kiss and watched as she turned the car round on the glistening streets and headed for home. I walked round the corner and took stock.

Apart from its name the Silver Dollar exceeded my expectations of the gulf between Vegas and the Gallowgate. It was ten o’clock, the pubs were shutting and the Silver Dollar was the refuge of the partygoer with his mind set on heralding the dawn with a drink in his hand. Duncan had said if the club was open, I’d find Frankie Elliot there. Frankie had a
majority stake in the place and managed his investment from a corner seat at the back of the lounge facing the stage. No one could come or go within Frankie’s purview without his eyes eating them up. But first I had to get past the janitor.

I touched the hard metal of my gun for luck. Just what I needed squaring up to the gorilla at the door. His face was in shadow with the light behind him. A flight of stairs led up to the promised land. But above him, little or no light escaped from the heavy blackout curtains, and only a whisper of music filtered down the stairwell. I walked up to King Kong.

‘Evening, pal.’

‘Where d’ye think yer gawin’?’

‘Up there. To the flashing lights and sensuous dancing. Where do you think?’

It was clear that thinking wasn’t something he did for a living. His Neanderthal brow furrowed. ‘Yous a member?’

‘I’m here to join.’

‘Ye cannae come in if yer no’ a member.’

‘So how do you become a member if you can’t come in to join up? Does this help?’ I waved a ten-bob note at him.

He scratched his chin, trying to remember the procedure he’d been taught. Then it came back. With the two times table. ‘OK, pal, here’s how it works. You go up there and talk to Bert. Tell him you want to join. Bert’ll fix it.’

I tucked the ten-bob note into his breast pocket and walked round him – it took a while – and up the stairs. I could feel his eyes on my back and hoped the outline of the Webley wasn’t on show from below. I got to the landing at the top. Ahead was a thick black curtain. As I moved to push it aside a man stepped through. The music was suddenly louder. He looked smarter and meaner than the big lout downstairs. He inspected me with fast eyes.

‘Are you Bert?’

‘Who’s askin’?’

‘Dave Bruce. I want to join.’

‘You just aff a ship?’ He stroked his chin to indicate his Holmesian powers of deduction.

‘You could say that.’

‘Three quid for life membership. One pound entrance. And one for me.’

‘I make that a fiver. That’s a lot of money and it doesn’t even get me a drink. Can I see inside first? See what it’s like?’

He measured the odds. ‘Come through, take one look and then it’s decision time. Yer in luck. Senga’s just coming on.’

He held back the curtain and I stepped into the hot smoky darkness. Ahead was the small stage lit by a solitary suspended light. Around me, chairs and tables formed haphazard groups. It was about half full, maybe thirty or so men and a smattering of women. Seekers after the truth – found in the bottom of every bottle and mislaid by morning.

Or maybe I’d find the truth in the songs of Senga who’d just materialised on the scrap of a stage. Senga – so christened by an aspirational tenement mother using the backward spelling of her own name – slunk on stage, all heavy make-up, red satin and bulges. Ageless and wise, Senga knew her audience. Knew they were apathetic bystanders to her possible stardom. But even after twenty years of grinding out love songs to alcoholics, Senga still carried hope in her pendulous bosom that among the deaf drinkers was an agent alerted to her fresh take on ‘Pennies from Heaven’.

‘Here you go, Bert.’ I gave him a big white fiver borrowed from Sam. ‘Do I get a membership card?’

‘Ye get in. Ah’ll mind yer face if ye want to come back.’

Fair enough. Trust between gentlemen wasn’t dead. I looked casually round the room while Senga began to belt it out. A big girl with a big voice that filled the low-ceilinged room. The punters had to shout louder to hear their own bons mots. I let my gaze drift casually across the room to the dark corner table at the rear. Sure enough, I met a pair of
questioning eyes. They belonged to a small man with a centre parting and a thin ’tache: the spiv’s trademarks. When I say he was small, that was only in relation to the two beefsteaks sitting either side. They didn’t look taller than the central figure but neither had necks, and both looked ready to break someone in two at a nod from Frankie Elliot. I moved to the far side of the room away from Frankie and found a tiny table for two. I sat down and lit a fag and waited. It didn’t take long.

A girl who might as well have been Senga’s daughter slid into the seat next to me and asked for a light.

‘You in on a ship?’ she asked.

‘More a yacht.’

She looked puzzled, as her catalogue of boats flashed across her mind. It didn’t take long.

‘Ah’m drinking lemonade but you’ll have to pay for Babycham. Ma name’s Rena.’

I studied her. Barely of drinking age, possibly pretty beneath the layers, and already with the wary hardness that comes from dealing with much older men.

‘I’m not here for a girl. I want to talk.’

‘Ah’m fine wi’ talking. What do you want to talk aboot?’

I smiled. ‘Much as I’d like to chat with you, Rena, I’m here to have a wee word with your boss.’

Her face froze. ‘Which boss? Ah mean the boss of the club, or ma – you know…’

I didn’t want her to say the word, didn’t want to think of her pimp. ‘Frankie. Mr Elliot. Here, tell him I’d like a quiet word.’

I took out my police warrant card and showed it to her. Her eyes widened further and I thought she’d bolt.

‘Take it easy, Rena. This isn’t a raid. I just want a friendly word. Will you please tell him?’

Her face was drawn; her lips had tightened. I saw her gulp.

‘Aye. Ah will. Ah wisnae doin’ anything wrong, wis Ah?’

I shook my head. ‘No, Rena. Absolutely not. I’m sorry I couldn’t buy you a drink.’

She was nodding and nodding and then she was scampering away. I waited. I didn’t look round. Just listened to the steady murder of one of my favourite songs…

I sensed his presence as he came up on me from behind. I kept still, all my nerves jangling, trusting that no one would cosh a senior cop, not even in the Silver Dollar. Then fagladen breath warmed my ear, and a deep rasping voice whispered, ‘Mr Elliot will see you now.’