Gallowglass (27 page)

FIFTY-EIGHT

M
cCulloch got in first. ‘Yes, Chief Inspector, it’s about the Scottish Linen Bank. But it’s also about kidnap and murder. And last but by no means least, it’s about framing an innocent man.’

At this he turned to me and nodded. I stepped forward and faced the lonely figure.

‘Why did you do it, Sangster? Money? Did you get a slice of the ransom?’

‘I don’t have to answer
your
questions. You have to answer mine!’

McCulloch said quietly, ‘You’re wrong, Sangster. And by the way, as of this moment, you are formally suspended from duty. Furthermore, I am formally arresting you on suspicion of conspiracy to pervert the course of justice, aiding and abetting the kidnap and murder of Mungo Gibson—’

‘Wait! Wait a minute, ye cannae dae this! And why are you saying Mungo Gibson? You’re confused, sir. It wisnae him, it was his brother that got killed. And
he
did it! Douglas Brodie did it! Ah know nothing aboot a ransom!’

I studied him. He really seemed convinced that Fraser had died.

‘I thought you knew Fraser Gibson? You were quick enough to identify him.’

‘Ah’ve never seen the man in the flesh. Ah’ve seen his face
in the papers and his wife said he was missing. She identified the body! But whoever it was,
you
killed him!’

‘It’s interesting that you still think that, Sangster. It might just save your neck. But you haven’t answered my question. Why did you frame me?’

Sangster was looking wildly around him, a cornered rat. McCulloch spoke again, his voice harder than ever.

‘Sangster, this is going to go ill for you. You might – as Brodie here suggests – just save your worthless skin. But your one hope to do that is to make a clean breast of your part in this miserable affair.’

‘Sir? Excuse me for interrupting,’ said Duncan.

‘Yes, Todd?’

‘While Brodie was explaining things to you, my men were picking up Angus Fulton – Cammie Millar’s uncle – and he’s singing like a lintie. His wee nephew Cammie is dead but Lady Gibson might live long enough to confess. Gus Fulton is prepared to sign a sworn testimony which includes the part played by Chief Inspector –
sorry
– the former Chief Inspector Walter Sangster in setting up Brodie.’

All eyes focused on the diminished figure standing in front of us. He blinked a couple of times as the accusation sank in and then suddenly jolted into life.

‘Ah never knew about the kidnap till it happened. Ah jist got a call from Gus Fulton telling me to send a squad car to Marr Street. That’s where we found Brodie.’

‘Really? So an old lag phoned you out of the blue and you jumped into action?’ I asked. ‘Just like you jumped when Cammie phoned you this morning to say I was at Lady Gibson’s house. And you’d find me – how shall we put it? Indisposed.’

His jaw clenched. ‘Gus had been in touch before. He said there was something going down, and it would be in my interest to respond. Ah didnae know it involved you. No’ till later.’

My raw anger at the man drained away and I was left with something close to pity. But no more than I might have for a mangy dog breathing its last.

‘But when you found me there, you were quick to assume I was guilty and happy to concoct a story that framed me. Then, acting with Sheila Fraser, Cammie and his Uncle Gus, you and your squad went on to build a watertight case against me.’

He was silent and his silence convicted him.

‘Sangster, let me help you. Here’s my theory. Inspector Todd tells me that it’s common knowledge around the station that someone – how was it put? – someone in a senior position wanted to see me at the very least jailed, but preferably dead. Hanging was the preference. But my suicide would do. Is that correct?’

Sangster’s eyes were bulging and his head was shaking. He seemed to be shrivelling up inside. His shoulders drew in on his chest as though his innards were being sucked out. I went on.

‘I think I know who he is. I also think he
used
to be in a senior position. Used to be your boss, Sangster. Am I getting warm?’

It was plain from his face that I was boiling hot.

‘Did you hate me that much, Sangster?’ I asked softly. ‘Hated me enough to see me swing?’

I thought he wasn’t going to answer but finally he found some moisture in his mouth. He answered just as softly at first. As though it were just the two of us in the room.

‘Hate you? Ah suppose that’s what it was. Always making me look an eejit, Brodie. You, wi’ your fine education, looking doon on me. On all of us wee folk. Thinking you were better than us. Too good to wear a uniform. To get your hands dirty doon among ordinary folk. It’s no’ easy, doon here. Trying to clean up a shite-hoose while the stuff keeps pouring in through the roof and through the windaes and unner the door
. . . And a’ the time, there you are, sitting on the sidelines like bloody Sherlock Holmes, sneering at us. Treating
us
like shite!’

His voice had risen to a shout. I kept mine low.

‘So you were prepared to send
another
innocent man to the gallows because I made you feel small?’

He looked puzzled. I jogged his memory.

‘A year ago, last spring, you and your fellow
officers
framed my pal Hugh Donovan for murder. Advocate Campbell and I tried to save him, but it was too late. You and your high-up friends had already fixed the evidence. But afterwards, when Hugh was dead and buried, I found out who did it, didn’t I? I found out who among the high command in the Glasgow police force put the rope around his neck. But it seems we didn’t dig out all the pus. The sore went on festering. It seems policemen like you, Sangster, can’t shake off the dirty habits.’

He didn’t answer. There was nothing more he could say in his shocked state. McCulloch saw it too. He stepped towards Sangster.

‘Hand over your warrant card.’

Sangster reached inside his uniform pocket and pulled out the slim folder. He looked at it once, fondly, wistfully, knowing he’d never see it again. Then he handed it over. McCulloch turned to Duncan.

‘Inspector Todd, take this man into custody. No visitors except his lawyer. And while you’re at it, arrest every officer that worked with him on the Gibson case. With immediate effect, every man jack of them is suspended. If anyone argues, tell them to come see me.’

Duncan moved forward, unsure exactly how to go about this, but keen enough. He reached out and put a hand on Sangster’s shoulder. Sangster winced as though Duncan’s hand was red hot.

‘Let’s go, Sangster.’

Duncan steered him out of the door and away. I looked round the room. Sam had her hand up to her mouth. Harry raised his eyebrows at me:
What can you say?
McCulloch looked old and beaten.

‘Malcolm, thank you. That wasn’t easy,’ I said.

He took a deep breath and pulled his shoulders back.

‘You’re wrong, Brodie. It
was
easy. I never have a problem rooting out rotten apples. The hard bit’s to come. We’ve got a police force to rebuild.’

He looked me straight in the eye and continued.

‘In a way, Sangster has a point. If Miss Campbell will excuse me, we
are
down in the shit. Glasgow’s a midden and we’re the only ones with a shovel. It’s dirty and it’s nonstop. It corrupts good men. I think Sangster was once a good copper. So, I don’t blame you for not wanting to be down among it. But I need help.’

‘Malcolm, y
ou
of all people can hardly say I’ve been standing on the sidelines! Not just this time, but for the last year and a half.’

‘I know that. But you’ve chosen not to be part of the team. Officers like Duncan Todd need leaders. Men like you. Men they can look up to. I’ve asked you this before. Join me. You’ve been masquerading as a chief inspector for a few weeks now. I can make it real.’

It was so unexpected that I had no sensible response. I turned to Sam. She was into the eyebrow-raising business like Harry. I turned back.

‘I’m going to play hard to get, Malcolm. I’ll think about it and I’ll give you my answer in one week. But before all that, there are some formalities. Miss Campbell is my lawyer. She needs to make sure all charges against me are dropped. Sam?’

‘I’ve already alerted the Procurator Fiscal we might need some urgent help. He should be on the premises. Can I call him to join us, Chief Constable, and get you to confirm that Douglas Brodie is…’

I smiled at her. ‘Alive is a good start, Sam.’

‘Quite. Alive and exonerated. Amongst other things we’ll need a warrant to arrest Fraser Gibson.’

‘By all means, Miss Campbell. It will be my pleasure. Anything else, Brodie?’

‘I have unfinished business.’

‘The man behind Sangster?’

I nodded.

‘What do you need?’

‘Two things. First, a letter from you and a loan of Inspector Todd early Monday morning.’

‘Done. What’s the second?’

‘A word with Gus Fulton.’

McCulloch eyed me up. ‘As long as it’s just a word.’

Duncan and I walked down into the body of the police station, down along the familiar corridors, past my former temporary home. My mouth was dry and my heart was racing. Duncan gripped me by the shoulder as we marched past the cells. We strode on and into the interview room.

Gus Fulton was hunched over the desk, pencil held in his claw, tongue sticking out. He stopped scribbling. Duncan nodded to the uniformed sergeant and picked up the sheets of lined foolscap bearing the part-written confession. He handed them to me and turned to Gus.

‘Hello, Gus. You no’ finished yet?’

Fulton’s thin face blazed at Duncan. ‘Ah’m daen ma best. It’s no easy efter whit you did.’ He held up both hands and showed torn knuckles and welts, and then pointed at a black eye and swollen cheek.

Duncan sighed. ‘Ye shouldnae have resisted arrest, then. Ah’m forgetting myself. You two huvnae been introduced. Or huv ye?’

Fulton’s sallow features twitched and tensed. I saved his memory the trouble.

‘Oh, I think we’ve met. Haven’t we, Gus? Before the war and again more recently. In a wee flat in Marr Street.’

Fulton’s face took on a look of panic. He turned back to Duncan.

‘Yer no’ gontae lea’ me wi’ him, are ye?’

Duncan smiled. ‘Depends on whether you answer his questions nicely or not. Ah’ll just stand here. Mr Brodie, he’s all yours.’

I sat down opposite Fulton and held his gaze.

‘Are you going to be helpful, Gus?’

He nodded, several times, and gulped. His big Adam’s apple shot up and down his skinny neck like the gong on a test-your-strength machine at the shows. I then – very deliberately – read through his confession. It confirmed my suspicion about who was behind my frame-up. And why.

I finished. I tidied up the sheets, laid them down between us and pointed at them.

‘This is going well, Gus, but there are some details missing. I’m going to ask you some specific questions, you’re going to answer, and then you’re going to add them to this confession. OK?’

He nodded.

‘Why did you chose the Govan Fair day?’

He shrugged. ‘It kept everybody away at the other side o’ Govan. Nae witnesses. And we could keep an eye on you.’

‘Why did you send me on the wild-goose chase?’

‘Foot ferries. Cammie had the car. It meant you had to get oot and walk.’

‘And gave Cammie time to get back to Marr Street?’

He nodded.

‘Don’t nod. Speak it out loud. We all want to hear.’

‘Aye. That’s right.’

‘Who owns the flats?’

He wiped his mouth. ‘Ma wife.’

‘Investment of profits from the bingo?’

‘Aye. Her pension, she ca’d them.’

‘Were you and Cammie waiting for me in the flat next door to Gibson?’

‘Aye, ahint the door. In oor stocking feet.’

‘Very professional. What was the plan?’

‘We tied up Gibson and then we was waiting till we heard you go in and then we was gontae clobber you.’

‘Then shoot Mungo and make it look like I’d shot him?’

He gulped. ‘Aye. We were gontae leave a gun by you where the polis would find it.’

‘What happened?’

‘We heard you go in.

We began to come efter you. Then we heard a crash and you fell oot the far door. Mungo had got free and hit you. Yer gun went clattering. We didnae ken you had a gun.’

‘What happened then?’

‘We ran doon the hall…’ He stopped.

‘Go on.’

‘Gibson came oot.’

‘Then?’

‘Then Cammie grabbed your gun and shot him.’

‘Convenient. And you’re sure it was Cammie that shot him?’

‘As God’s ma judge.’

‘Oh, you won’t need God for that, Gus.’

FIFTY-NINE

I suppose Duncan and I could have made the visit on the Sunday. Every day’s the same where we were going. But on no account was I going to spoil my first day as a free man. And I had more important business. Sam and I rose early and went for a walk through the park along by the Kelvin. On the way, we bought a pile of the Sunday papers. They were full of wild stories. The
Post
even had my photo under a headline: ‘Danger Man on the Run’.

We sat on a bench as the sun struggled through to take off the chill off the day. Sitting in the dappled shade, surrounded by birdsong and bidding good morning to other walkers, we flicked through the papers, laughing at the outlandish speculation and distortions. Somehow it made it easier to hold a long review of the last few days. Already the events were shuttling into the past, happening to someone else. We dumped the papers in the bin and walked up the long slope, hand in hand, ready to dress for the kirk.

‘You should wear your uniform.’

‘Too much, surely, Sam.’

‘Not for this morning. It’s exactly what’s needed. You still see a lot of uniforms on a Sunday. Anyway, you should be proud. As far as Sillitoe is concerned you’re still in the Service.’

So I did. I had to polish the Sam Browne belting and press the jacket, but soon I was marching out of the door in
the dress uniform of a lieutenant colonel in the Royal Tank Corps, black beret at a jaunty angle. I could have wished it had been my old regiment, the Seaforth Highlanders, but any man would be proud to sport the tank badge. I had a momentary pang that my holster was empty; I wondered if I’d ever see my service revolver again? But who needed a gun in church? Not even the dullest sermoniser deserved that.

Together we drove down to Kilmarnock and whisked my mother off to her kirk. I briefed her beforehand.

‘Just tell them you can’t really talk about it. That it’s all a bit hush-hush.’

‘
Need to know
? That sort of thing?’ She was grinning a wee secret smile.

‘You’ve got it, Mum. Don’t overdo it, now.’

‘Me? As if…’

She could barely contain her glee, like a wee girl who’d just been told she was off to the circus at Kelvin Hall for her birthday. It was a small recompense for the weeks of frowns and headshaking that she’d had to put up with. Kilmarnock folk were quick to forgive, but quicker to judge.

We were in good time to mingle with her fellow worshippers outside. Apart from my height and the uniform, and Sam’s blonde hair and sparkling eyes, my renaissance itself would have drawn some attention. I’d been headlining the wireless and newspapers for days. My mum waltzed through the crowd smiling and chatting as if it was an everyday occurrence for her boy to come back from the dead looking every inch the hero. Even the minister came over and shook my hand, vigorously. He looked as embarrassed as only a man could who’d declined to officiate at my funeral.

‘It’s good to see you, Douglas. And this is…?’

‘Miss Samantha Campbell, advocate.’

‘Right, right. Well, it’s good to see you both here. With your mother. So everything is well then, Douglas?’

‘Just fine, Minister. Don’t believe everything you read in the papers, eh?’

‘Aye, quite so. Good. Good. Well done…’ He all but asked for absolution.

Mum’s pew was in the front row of the gallery, looking down on the pulpit. It meant we were in full view of most of the kirk when we stood to sing. It was as if we’d switched on a big magnet. Eyes were drawn inexorably to Sam’s blonde cap under the little blue pillbox hat. To Mum between us, silver hair gleaming under her bonnet, and her occasional big smile up at me. And to me, reformed murderer, risen-again suicide, and army colonel in full uniform and medal ribbons.

After more glad-handing at the end of the service, we whisked Mum off to Troon for a full-blown, slap-up lunch at the Rowantree Hotel on the seafront. It was my first chance to recount to her all the recent machinations. Her disbelief was matched only by mine.

Later, when we left her outside her tenement in Bonnyton, we made as much noise as possible to ensure we had all the neighbours’ curtains twitching.

Come the Monday, I’d asked to be picked up at ten. It gave me time for a long, shoulder-busting swim at the Western, followed by tea, boiled eggs and toast with Sam. Once more, I was in uniform. It seemed appropriate. I knew Duncan would be wearing his. The squad car was waiting for me as I stepped out of the door. Duncan was standing by the Wolseley, tunic unbuttoned, tie undone, cap off, smoking.

‘Well,
Colonel
, before we get going, I want you to promise something.’

‘What?’

‘You’ll no’ hit him.’

I laughed, but he was serious. Was I such a loose cannon?

‘I’ll let the law hit him.’

‘You don’t have anything in yon holster?’

‘If you recall, Sangster took it.’ I flipped up the flap to show it was empty.

‘Just checking. You’re a man that always seems able to lay his hand on a gun, Brodie.’

He slid into the driver’s seat. I took the passenger seat alongside him.

‘Have you been demoted, Duncan?’

‘Naw. I assumed we’d need to talk. The station is in enough of an uproar without giving out more gossip.’

‘How’s Sangster?’

‘Are you really asking after his health?’

‘Just morbid curiosity.’

‘On suicide watch. Not that Ah think he’s got the bottle for it.’

‘You can never tell. Look at poor wee Clarkson.’

‘True enough. Sangster’s no’ sayin’ much, apparently. Ah think the shock’s driven him doolally.’

‘His men?’

‘We’ve got five of them locked up. A’ protesting their innocence and assuring me Ah’m a dead man when this is a’ cleared up.’

‘Which suggests they’re guilty of something.’

‘Exactly my thought.’

‘You enjoying it, Duncan?’

‘Mixed. It fair scunners me to run into dirty coppers. On the other hand, these particular gents deserve a’ they get.’

‘Doesn’t your lot absolve sinners?’

‘Only if they confess and are truly repentant. Sangster’s minions have a fair way to go. Speaking of sinners: how do you want to handle this meeting? And before Ah forget, here’re the letters from McCulloch.’

He pulled out an envelope from his inside pocket and gave it to me. It was addressed to the Governor, HM Prison Barlinnie. It wasn’t sealed. I flipped it open and found two
letters addressed to the Governor. I read them, one from the Chief Constable and one from the Procurator Fiscal.

‘These should do it.’

We drove north-east out of Glasgow until we got to the sparsely built-up area of Riddrie. Towering over the scattered rows of houses stood the massive grey walls and bleak buildings of Barlinnie. It took me back eighteen months to my first visit with Hugh Donovan.

We parked, did up our tunics and adjusted beret and cap respectively. With our uniforms, Duncan’s warrant card and my letters of introduction, we were soon in front of the Governor. He remembered me from over a year ago when I’d first asked to see Hugh in the condemned cell. At the time I’d found Colin Hislop – then Deputy Governor – a twitchy bureaucrat terrified of taking a decision. He’d been particularly leery of letting me see Hugh once he found out I was both an ex-Glasgow copper and a current freelance reporter down in London. It appeared my latest incarnation –
reincarnation
– as an army colonel had sent him back to biting his nails.

‘This is so irregular. I mean it was in all the papers that you… that you’re…’

‘A murderer and dead? Exaggerations, Governor. Now I’m here with Inspector Todd. Do you doubt his credentials?’

He looked over at Duncan, and eyed him up and down, clearly suspecting some trickery.

‘I suppose not. I mean of course not.’

‘Good. And unless you believe in ghosts, I am sitting here as solid as Inspector Todd. Is that also correct?’

He gnawed away at another piece of nail, indicating his clear preference, if it was all the same to me, that I was a visitor from the spirit world.

‘Yes, yes. I can see that. But…’

‘And you don’t think I’ve stolen this uniform, or that I’m impersonating an officer?’

‘No, no. of course not…
Colonel
.’

‘Well done, Governor. We’re nearly there. Now, those letters you have in your hand.’ I pointed at them. ‘Do you think they are forgeries? And if so, would you like to pick up the phone and speak to both the Chief Constable and the Procurator Fiscal?’

I fully expected him to self-combust at being forced to take a decision on something that wasn’t written down in the three-volume manual about a governor’s duties that sat on his desk. We waited, curious to see if he’d plunge his paper knife into his own chest rather than take a personal initiative. He pored over the short missives twice more. Finally he shot to his feet clutching the letters. He called for his secretary.

His pale assistant materialised, certain we were about to murder her boss and chop him into small pieces. She must have been reading my mind.

‘Please get my deputy to arrange for these –
gentlemen
– to see the prisoner. In the side room. The secure room. Right away.’

Then he sat down and stared at his desk. We crept out, leaving him to his three volumes and his paper knife.