Gallowglass (26 page)

FIFTY-FIVE

‘O
ne murder not enough for you, Cammie?’

‘Shut up. Sheila, let’s go. You all packed?’

She tried to put her glass down, relief flooding her face. She missed. The glass tumbled to the floor. She ignored it. She walked over to him and slipped her arm through his.

‘All packed.’

‘You pissed already?’

‘Course not. Just needed a drink, cos of him.’ She pointed at me.

‘You packed the money too?’

‘Course, darling.’

‘Darling?’ I asked. ‘How very sweet.’

‘Shut up, you.’ He raised his gun again.

Sheila wrinkled her forehead. ‘You’re not going to kill him, are you, darling? Just tie him up or something.’

‘Seems to me he’s already dead. They’ve already put a stone up. Just need to change the date, is all.’ His finger tightened.

I forced a smile. ‘Cammie, Cammie, did you really think I’d come alone? The game’s over. The police are on their way.’

‘Naw. Why would they? I heard the wireless. They’re looking for
you
, Brodie. What I think is that we could kill you now in self-defence. Say you attacked Sheila here. It’ll give us time to get going.’

‘Martinique?’

‘None o’ your fuckin’ business. Let’s put it this way, it’ll be first class all the way.’

‘They’ll come after you, Cammie. I broke into Roddie Adams’s place last night. I’ve handed all the evidence of the love nest to the police. They’ll catch you and you’ll swing for
two
murders if you kill me. But you might get away with your neck if you don’t shoot me.’

He blinked. ‘You’re a tricky sod, aren’t you, Brodie?’

Sheila tugged at his arm. ‘Wait, wait, Cammie, dear. What do you mean, Brodie?’

‘There were two of them, weren’t there? Two kidnappers. I assume Fraser himself wasn’t one. Too risky. He’d be lying low, prior to being committed to Ailsa. That makes it just you and Uncle Gus Fulton? But there was only one shot. Which of you pulled the trigger? Who shot poor Mungo? You or Uncle Gus? You could turn King’s evidence and save your neck.’

His confidence faltered. His brain digested the implications. But:

He turned to Sheila. ‘Get your stuff. Now! Let’s go.’

‘You’re not going to…?’

‘There’s no need. Every cop in Scotland’s looking for him. They still think he murdered Gibson. Disnae matter if it’s Mungo or Fraser.’

He walked across the room and picked up the phone. He dialled, all the while keeping his gun trained on me.

‘Detective Chief Inspector Sangster, please.’

He waited.

‘Walter? It’s me. You’re looking for Brodie? Well, he’s here. Whitecraigs. Naw, he’ll be no trouble.’ He glanced at me and smiled. A dirty smile. ‘Aye, right. Right. It’ll be my pleasure.’

He hung up. Then he tore the phone cable out the wall. He smiled at Sheila.

‘Cops are on the way and this yin cannae call any pals. Janice says he must have walked here. Nae sign of a car. It’ll
take days for Sangster to work oot what’s going on. If ever. We’ll be long gone.’

Sheila squeezed his arm in silent adoration. He faced me.

‘You! Turn round, or I put a bullet in you, right now.’

He shifted his gun to his left hand and aimed it at my head. He reached into his jacket. Slowly, I turned round. I heard him take two steps towards me then a rush of air. It was just enough warning to shift my head to one side, but I still took much of the blow. Like a soft hammer smashing into my skull. A lead cosh. It drove me to my knees and I heard him move forward to administer the knock-out blow. I fell flat forward and heard the cosh whistle past my head. I kept falling face down and played dead. It didn’t take much acting. I lay there with my brain exploding, slipping in and out of consciousness for what seemed like eons.

FIFTY-SIX

T
here were no more blows but the pain lashed through me. I opened my eyes. I could see light and colour again. A mishmash. I heard someone come in. I stiffened, ready for another pasting, but whoever it was knelt beside me.

‘Sir, sir! Are you a’right?’

I groaned. ‘Water. Get water.’

I pushed myself on to my side and let my eyes focus. Outside I heard a car’s engine revving up, then wheels spinning across the gravel. I struggled to my knees. Janice darted back into the room with a glass of water. I grabbed it and poured it over my head. The water cascaded off me.

‘Show me to the bathroom.’

She helped me up on to my feet. With her support under my arm, I staggered to the door, bouncing off a lamp and an armchair. In the hall, she steered me towards a white door. I limped inside the bathroom and ran cold water. I slunged it on my face several times until my head cleared. It still hurt like blazes but I was awake. Janice passed me a towel and dried myself.

‘Do you know who I am, Janice?’

‘Aye. Ah ken fine. You’re that pair man they blamed. Ah thocht you were deid.’

‘So did everybody. Why did you lie about me?’

Her face crumpled. ‘Ah was feart. For ma job. For ma life.’

‘Have they gone?’

She just nodded, face a picture of misery.

‘Just ran oot, sir. Narry a thanks or onything. Efter five years.’

‘Where did they go, do you know?’

‘Ah saw tickets the other day. The
Queen Mary
, so it was. Ah thocht it was a wee holiday. But Ah didnae think they were kinda eloping.’

‘You knew about them?’

‘Oh aye. That’s no’ something you hide.’

‘Right, lassie. If a policeman arrives in the next wee while, tell him to follow me. Tell him to meet me at the docks, the passenger dock for the
Queen Mary
. Got that?’

She nodded and I stumbled for the door, head splitting with every movement. I lurched down the drive, my head feeling like the top had come off and my brains were hanging out. I clambered into the Morris, fired her up and set off. By the end of the road my head was clearing and I put my foot down. As I swept round the corner I nearly crashed head-on into the big police Wolseley filled with cops. We swerved and squealed to a halt. Duncan jumped out of the front passenger seat and ran over. I rolled my window down.

‘Sheila Gibson and Cammie are on the run. He’s got a gun. They’re heading to the docks. The
Queen Mary
.’

‘Go!’ he shouted and ran back to his squad car. The pair of us set off, revving and crashing through the gears to get to top speed as fast as possible. The police car had its bell going now. It must have looked and sounded like I was a desperado being chased by the cops.

We broke out on to the main Kilmarnock Road running into Glasgow. The road was quiet. The big police Wolseley, with its top speed of about 75 mph, soon swept past me, bell clanging away. I cranked up my speed until my dial was quivering around the 60 mark. I wished I had Sam’s Kestrel. It would have been a match. I swept round a long curve and
entered the long straight through Pollokshaws. As yet, Cammie would have no idea that he was being hunted. He wouldn’t risk breaking the speed limit.

My answer was far ahead; the solid shape of the big Humber was just sailing out of sight and the police car was gaining. I hunched over the steering wheel, my foot hard to the floor, willing more speed from the Morris. But the dial only flickered above its max when the slope was in my favour.

A bit of me knew that the elopers weren’t going to leap on to the liner and sail off laughing into the sunset. Not unless it was poised to set off the moment they shot on to the passenger pier. But my cold anger had warmed up to melting point. This bastard had casually coshed me and left me to Sangster’s tender mercies. It was the second time Cammie had set me up. I was going to knock his teeth out. Simple as that. There was the small matter of his having a gun and my Webley lying in Shimon’s back room, but that wasn’t part of my red-misted judgement.

They were heading straight as a die towards Glasgow Bridge. Ahead of them the traffic was beginning to thicken. But the police bell was carving a hole. And the Humber was accelerating. Cammie must have realized he was being chased. Cars began pulling to the kerb as if pushed aside by a long bow wave from some invisible craft. I began catching up and hammered along in their wake. The Humber was now in plain sight, weaving in and out of the traffic, the Wolseley right on its tail.

They blasted over the bridge, closely followed by me. Where would they go? They couldn’t swing left and down to the docks. We’d catch them when they stopped. They ran on past the turn-off and up Jamaica Street. They were heading north. Refuge in the hills?

They screeched round a left turn on two wheels and took off up the Great Western Road. Where would that get them? Dumbarton? The Highlands? The police car was now right
behind them. It drew out to overtake. If they worked it well they could get in front and I could ram them from behind. But as Duncan drew alongside, I saw one of his side windows shatter. I’d forgotten the gun. Cammie had shot at them. The Wolseley swerved and slowed and pulled over on the wrong side of the road. As I drew alongside I peered over. Duncan waved and gave the thumbs up and flagged me on. I left him picking glass from his jacket. Both cars regathered speed and we set after the runaways.

I assumed Cammie would keep heading west and north, but then his car swung left into the maze of streets of Hill-head. Hoping to lose us, backtrack to the docks? We raced through the streets, skidding round corners, dancing round cars. Cammie’s Humber bounced off another car and came off best. An innocent Model T ended up smacking into a wall. I saw the driver’s head bounce off the windscreen. At least he had his hat on; it would take some of the impact. Where the hell were they going?

We shot into Bank Street, a road I’d walked most days in my university period. Then we were on even more familiar ground: University Avenue itself. He must be trying to head back down to the docks. But he threw another fit and drove, tyres squealing, into the Glasgow University grounds. I’d spent four years here studying and wandering the precincts every day. I knew every inch. There was no way out. All we had to do was box him in.

And not get shot.

The Humber went right with the cop car tight on its bumper. I went left to cut him off. While they would be shooting across Professors’ Square, I would whip down past the lodge and round the side of the East Quadrangle. We should meet smack in front of the central tower on Gilmore Hill, with its high wide views of the Kelvingrove Park and the city far below. On the opposite hill, in Park Terrace, Sam would be sitting in her lounge fretting about what was
happening to me. She’d be fretting more if she were on the roof with a set of binoculars.

I swung round the corner and saw them dead ahead, coming straight at me. There was nowhere to go. The choice was the steep drop to my left or the solid flanks of the university frontage to my right. If they wanted to escape they’d have to get past me or through me. And I wasn’t going to let that happen. No matter what.

I began bracing myself for the impact. We were belting towards each other at a closing speed of 50 or 60 miles an hour. I didn’t care about my car; MI5 would foot the bill. But I doubted they could put me back together. The Humber’s straight six engine probably weighed as much as the whole Morris Ten. But I was counting on Cammie and Sheila not wanting to risk the uncertain outcome of a head-on crash.

Suddenly Cammie’s arm poked out. With his gun in it. He let rip with one shot, then another. My windscreen shattered but the bullets missed my head. I just had time to punch the jagged screen aside and see their faces clearly. He was shouting in fury. She was screaming. I gritted my teeth ready for the crash.

That’s when Sheila Gibson threw herself across Cammie and grabbed the wheel. She shoved it away from her and the car slewed sharply to my left, towards the drop. The whole passenger side of the car dipped as the forward impetus was transferred to a sideways motion. For a long second I thought it was going to roll, and smash into me side-on. But the low centre of gravity of the heavy chassis and engine block kept it on all four wheels. Kept it on the road just long enough to sail over the edge of Gilmore Hill.

I slammed on the brakes and juddered to a stop, nose to nose with the police car. We all leaped out and ran to the edge. The heavy Humber was still smashing its way down the steep slope. For a while it looked like it would make it in one piece to the Kelvingrove footpath at the bottom of the
hill. But then an axle gave out and a wheel flew off on its own trajectory, bouncing over a tree. The wing dug in and the car began to cartwheel. More bits started to fly off until with one final shocking crunch the Humber threw itself in fury against a tree.

Silence settled on the slope. The eye followed the swathe of ripped bushes and gouged grass to the tangle of metal and tree. Steam rose from the burst radiator.

‘Christ,’ said Duncan softly.

I set off down the slope. Duncan and his three uniformed colleagues slithered after me. We skidded and ran, tumbled and crashed through bushes until we reached the wreck. We approached gingerly in case the fuel tank went up, or a gunman started blasting away. We crouched, inspecting it for long seconds, but there was no sign of life from the engine or the occupants. I got up and walked closer. I could see inside.

Cammie’s head and shoulders jutted through the windscreen. His face was lacerated to the bone. His head lay funnily to one side. I couldn’t see Sheila until I got to the door and peered down. She was bent over, a jumbled set of limbs in the passenger footwell, a broken manikin. A soft moan escaped her lips. Duncan joined me and peered in.

He shouted to his constables. ‘Get an ambulance. Fast.’ He stood up. ‘Rough justice, Brodie, eh?’

‘And not the final tally. Come on, Duncan. Let’s finish the job. Leave these boys to clean up the mess. We’ve got a date with Sangster.’

FIFTY-SEVEN

W
e walked down to the path and then on through the park. On a summer’s day like this, it was lovely to walk in dappled light past flower beds filled with blooms. This was my life before my untimely death, and I wanted it back. I wanted to stroll though here and over to the Western Baths and plough up and down a swimming lane until my shoulders ached.

We crossed the Kelvin at the footbridge and began zigzagging up the side opposite the university.

‘You’re peching, Duncan. Time you gave up the fags.’

‘And the booze. And this job. Are we going to Sam’s, Brodie?’

‘I need some legal advice. And I need to make some phone calls.’

We were both out of puff by the time we reached the terrace. We stopped and looked back across the tree-filled park. We couldn’t quite make out the wreck. Only a faint tendril or two of smoke indicated its resting place. We could hear the bell of an ambulance at the far end of the park, coming from the Western Infirmary. I wondered if Sheila Gibson would make it? It didn’t matter. Not now. We turned and walked towards Sam’s.

‘Oh God, Douglas! Oh God!’ She flung herself into my arms as I stepped inside.

I held her long and hard until she’d settled. ‘It’s all right now, Sam. Everything’s going to be all right.’

She pushed back from me, her eyes shining. ‘You might have to grow that beard again.’

I kissed her. Then we heard Duncan’s ahem and split up.

She grabbed my hand. ‘Come through. Tell me everything. The wireless has been going non stop about the Scottish Linen Bank. Suicide of the Managing Director, police all over it, and a manhunt for a murderer.’

‘Sangster’s a terrier. Doesn’t let go.’

Anxiety swept her bonny face again. ‘How are we going to stop him?’

‘By resurrecting Fraser Gibson. Duncan, can you fill Sam in on what’s been happening? I need to make some phone calls.’

‘Ah’m no’ one hunner per cent sure masel’, frankly. But Ah’ll have a go.’

Though it was Saturday, my calls provoked instant results. Duncan, Sam and I then sat down and mapped out our plans. Two hours later, Sam was drawing up in the Riley outside Turnbull Street. I was in the back, Duncan in the front. My heart was pounding. The last time I was here I was being carried out on a stretcher with a sheet over my face. Sam turned to me.

‘Are you sure everyone is on our side?’

‘Nope. I haven’t spoken to McCulloch. He worries me.’

‘It’s hard to believe.’

‘So is the last five weeks. We’ll soon see. Let’s go.’

The three of us marched towards the front door: Sam dressed in her smart business suit, and carrying a slim leather folder under her arm to look even more the topflight advocate; me, bathed and in a fresh suit; Duncan, well, Duncan his crumpled self. As we walked into the police reception hall, he took my arm. He could claim to have me under arrest if there was no kindly reception committee.

At first I thought the place was empty apart from the desk sergeant. Then a woman rose from a chair near the door. It was Miss MacDonald, personal secretary to Chief Constable Malcolm McCulloch. She walked straight over to us.

‘Miss Campbell, gentlemen, this way please.’

She strode off and we followed her through the side door and up the stairs to her outer office.

She knocked on her boss’s door and poked her head round the corner.

‘Your guests, sir.’

I heard the gruff, familiar voice call out, ‘Come.’

Was he standing there, shoulder to shoulder with Sangster, guns pointed at the door and handcuffs at the ready? We walked in. The Chief Constable was already walking towards us, hand outstretched.

‘Brodie, it’s good to see you. I mean it.’

‘It’s good to be here, sir. I assume you’ve had a call from Sir Percy?’

‘A long one. Followed by a visit by one of his staff. I think you know this gentleman.’

Harry Templeton strode forward and shook my hand as though he’d never let it go.

‘Well done, man,’ he said. ‘You’ve done a remarkable job.’

I’d phoned Harry at the Central Station Hotel. He was then going to phone Sir Percy Sillitoe and get Sillitoe to sort things out with his successor to the chief constable role. It looked like it had all come off.

‘What’s happening at Scottish Linen?

‘We’ve issued press statements announcing the tragic death of the Managing Director and a temporary closure of the head office today. The Bank of England will have to fill some of the big holes in the balance sheet, but it’s not structural and there will be no public ruckus.’

‘Any knock-on effect? Sterling on the slide? Flack hitting the Marshall Plan funding?’

‘Embarrassing but not fatal. So far. The phones have been running hot across the Atlantic soothing nerves in Washington. We should get our Marshall loan. Just as well: signs are we’re seeing the start of a major run on our dollar reserves.’

‘What about Airchie Higgins? Where’s he?’

Harry smiled. ‘I claimed him from Sangster. He’s holed up at the Central, abusing room service. We’ll make use of his talents.’

‘Don’t forget his medal.’

McCulloch touched my arm. ‘Brodie, Miss Campbell, come and take a seat. I imagine you could do with a drink. I know I could. Just the one, mind. We have some nasty work to do. But first I want a full briefing. The whole wretched story, from start to finish.’

It took a while, with plenty of interrupts. For much of the time Duncan left us. He had work to do. Relevant work. At the end of my explanation, our glasses were as dry as my throat. McCulloch looked bleak.

‘Dirty business, Brodie. Dirty. I’m ashamed of my people.’

‘Let’s hope this is the final clearout.’

He nodded and gazed into his empty crystal glass wondering about having the other half. Then he rose and walked to the door.

‘Miss MacDonald, please ask Chief Inspector Sangster to join me. Don’t tell him who else is here. Right away, please.’

McCulloch tidied away the decanter and the glasses and invited us to stand to one side. He took up position in front of his desk and waited. Before Sangster arrived, Duncan rejoined us. He barely had time to nod at me and smile before we heard voices, then a knock on the door.

‘Come,’ McCulloch called out.

The door opened and Chief Inspector Walter Sangster came in.

‘You wanted to see me, sir. Is it about the bank…?’

His eyes registered there were others in the room. Then he paused. He’d met all us before. Harry, for the first time, yesterday at the bank. Todd, who worked for him. Samantha Campbell, advocate, who’d crossed swords with him several times, usually over me. And me. His gaze stopped on me. Then he turned to face his boss, his mouth open to start his defence.