Gallowglass (3 page)

FOUR

L
ady Gibson levelled her dark eyes at me, and I saw the steel behind the fear. Whatever happened, this woman would get through this. There might be more tears shed, but she’d pull herself together. It was one of the redeeming features of the upper classes. I glanced at my watch. We had half an hour. I was filled with misgivings about being dragged into a new mess. So much could go wrong with kidnappings. They rarely ended happily or without someone getting hurt. But I suppose I could at least hold this poor lady’s hand this evening. More selfishly, what was wrong with having a dash of spice in your soup? A kidnapping would certainly be more interesting to write – and read – about than international finance or vote-rigging in Budapest.

‘All right, Lady Gibson. I’ll sit with you while you take the call. Then we’ll see.’

I was already clear in my own mind that my advice would be to call the police. Sooner or later, they had to be involved. Regardless of their incompetence or the outcome. This was their business.

‘Thank you, Mr Brodie. Thank you.’ She again reached out and touched my arm. I wished I’d rolled my sleeves up.

All this time we’d been heading south, over the Clyde and then out on to the Kilmarnock Road. Soon we were in the Glasgow suburbs of Whitecraigs, the natural habitat of
wealthy bankers and their ilk. Wide tree-lined streets. Proud bungalows and massive red sandstone Victoriana with deep driveways. We pulled through the gates of a detached version of the latter and I admired the lions
couchants
perched on each. A variation on the wally dugs either side of our tenement fireplace.

We stopped with a crunch of gravel in front of a solid wood door framed by stone pillars. The door wouldn’t have looked out of place behind a moat. I got out and looked up at the house. Mansion might be a better word. I followed Lady Gibson inside. The hall was spacious and wood-panelled. Faux-baronial. But when does
faux
become
fait
?

An expensive central carpet cushioned our feet from the privations of the polished parquet floor. Soft lighting studded the panelled walls and illumined seascapes and mournful glens. At the far end of the hall one portrait stood out. In pride of place, and inspecting visitors as they arrived, was a glowing oil of a slim young woman with the eyes and lips of Lady Gibson. She sat at regal ease in a velvet gown holding a single red rose across her lap. Her proud eyes quizzed the visitor, asking why riffraff like me had been allowed in her exquisite home. I bit my tongue just before I asked Lady Gibson if this was her daughter. I followed her into a lounge off the hall. A maid scurried after us collecting the gloves, hatpin and hat of her mistress as they were shed.

‘Excuse me? Are you Janice?’ I asked.

The girl bobbed. ‘Yes, sir.’

‘Are you all right?’ Her face was white and strained. ‘It must have been terrifying today?’

Janice looked to her mistress for direction. Lady Gibson nodded.

‘Aye, it was. But Ah’m fine, sir. Ah’m OK now.’

When Janice left us, Lady Gibson walked straight over to a tray of crystal glasses and decanters.

‘Is Glenlivet all right, Mr Brodie? Pre-war, J. G. Smith.’

‘It works for me.’

It certainly did. The distillery had been mothballed during the war but I heard they were pumping the golden stuff out again. She splashed generous measures into two glasses and lifted a syphon with an enquiring eye.

‘Just a dash of water please,’ I said.

She fizzed a stream of soda into her glass, and handed me my whisky and a small jug of water. I inhaled deeply. Bliss. But it could be a difficult evening and I needed my head clear enough to tender sensible advice. I diluted to half and half. Lady Gibson took a deep swig of hers. It seemed to settle her.

‘I shall be back in a moment.’

She was back in two moments, her mane of dark auburn hair brushed and gleaming like the pelt of a cosseted cat. Now the hat and veil had gone I could admire the expertise which had brought it within a hue or two of the portrait in the hall. The smudges had been removed from under her eyes and the mascara subtly retouched. Her lips glistened redder as though she’d just licked them. Her figure was fuller than the one captured in oils but none the worse for that. Lady Gibson might have eased past her best years, but would still turn heads.

She strolled to the table, picked up a cigarette box and opened it for me. I took one of the oval beauties. Passing Cloud. An expensive habit. My first sight of them had been at a regimental ball in the officers’ mess of the Seaforths. I’d thought our supply officer was offloading flattened fags until he’d put me right.

We both lit up and raised glasses to each other. No cheers. This wasn’t a cheery moment. I sipped. She paced and swallowed the remainder of hers. I looked round. She saw me searching.

‘The phone’s over there.’ She pointed to a small table by the wall.

I took in the rest of the room. Soft lighting, sumptuous
furnishing. Like Sam’s could be if she could be bothered. I checked my watch. Quarter to seven. She was going to pace for fifteen more minutes.

‘While we’re waiting, Lady Gibson, can you show me how the masked men came and went?’

‘Follow me.’ She strode to the door and walked into the hall. ‘Janice heard the bell and went to the front door. Then she was dragged in and down to the dining room, along here.’

She walked down the hall and turned into a room on the right. We walked in and my conjecture came true. A picture-perfect dining room at whose heart was a rosewood table and six matching chairs. The mirror-polished surface held a centrepiece of flowers surrounded by four willow-pattern plates. The walls were papered a warm shade of red. A sideboard in the same opulent wood held a cutlery tray and table mats. A door led off, presumably to the kitchen.

‘Sir Fraser and I were sitting at the table when they rang the bell.’

‘Did they come straight in from the front door?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘How did they know where you were? It’s a big house.’

‘I told you. They grabbed Janice.’

‘You said she shrieked. And that got Fraser to his feet. With the carving knife.’

She nodded. ‘That’s right. But after that I’m sure I heard voices. A man’s. They made Janice bring them here.’

I took one long lingering look round the room; then we went back to the lounge to wait. She poured herself another hefty drink. I declined and we sat and listened to the clock on the mantelpiece beat out the passing of time in a steady toc, toc, toc. We’d been expecting it but we both still jumped when the phone rang on the dot of seven.

FIVE

‘P
unctual anyway,’ I said.

Lady Gibson gave a weak smile. She walked to the phone and picked it up.

‘Whitecraigs 2139.’

I heard the buzz of a distant, male voice.

‘Yes, this is Lady Gibson. Who is this?’

The buzz sounded again. Sheila was shaking her head.

‘But is my husband safe? I need to know.’ Her voice edged higher.

Buzz.

‘
How
much? We don’t have that much. Nothing like it.’

Buzz.

‘It’s impossible! I need more time. No, of course I haven’t called the police.’

Buzz.

‘All right. I’ll do what I can. But, really, it’s…’

No buzz.

Sheila hung up the phone and turned to me. She lifted her glass and drained it in one toss of her head.

‘Noon tomorrow.’

‘What?’

‘We have until noon tomorrow to find twenty thousand pounds.’

I whistled. ‘Or?’

Her hand went to her mouth and her body spasmed. Her eyes filled with terror.

‘Or they’ll kill him. Like Salome did to John the Baptist. I don’t – I don’t know what—’ Then realisation hit her as to what they’d do if the money wasn’t forthcoming. She collapsed on the couch and her body convulsed in great heaving waves.

As usual I was at a loss in front of a crying woman. Should I go over and pat her and go
there, there
? Pour her another drink? Give her my hankie? Tell her to pull herself together? But soon enough the grief stopped. She pulled herself upright and took deep breaths. Then she got up and walked out. She was back in a few minutes. Her face was red but the tears had gone. She’d washed and towelled her face. She walked over to the drinks tray and replenished her glass. She sat down facing me.

‘What now, Mr Brodie?’

‘Tell me exactly what they said.’

She took a gulp. ‘They want twenty thousand pounds by noon tomorrow or he’s dead. Tell the police and he’s dead. Instructions to follow.’

‘How? I mean how will you get further instructions?’

‘Phone. Tomorrow morning at ten. They’ll call with instructions and then we have to take the money to… somewhere. Wherever they say.’

She kept saying
we
. Maybe all titled folk used the royal plural.

‘Lady Gibson? You make it sound like you’re thinking of paying them. You mustn’t. Kidnappers never know when to stop being greedy. Give them anything and they’ll ask for more.’

She turned her dark eyes on me with fury.

‘Then what should I do? Just let him die?’

‘I think you should get the police.’

She shot to her feet. ‘No! No! Never! Not while there’s a chance.’

‘But it’s impossible. How can you get your hands on that amount by tomorrow?’

She waved her hand, as though her knight’s ransom was loose change.

‘Not easy. But not impossible.’

I looked at her standing there nursing her glass. Poise returned. Ramrod back. Tough lady in a crisis. A dark-haired sister of Samantha Campbell.

‘Then pay the ransom and hope for the best. But, Lady Gibson? One thing. How do you know he’s still alive?’

She stared at me as though I’d made a clumsy pass at her.

‘I’d
know
,’ she said simply.

I got to my feet and placed my glass down on the coffee table.

‘I wish you luck, then.’

I started to head for the door, hoping she’d get her man to give me a lift back to town. I didn’t fancy the walk and knew nothing about the buses this far out.

‘Mr Brodie? I know you think I’m mad. But it’s all I can do.’

I looked at her. I nodded.

She went on: ‘Will you do it?’

‘What?’ Though I knew what was coming next. Knew my search for a story had just taken a wrong turn.

‘Will you hand over the money for me?’

‘I’m sure your man – your chauffeur – can drop it off. He just has to follow instructions.’

She’d lost her air of confidence. Back to looking vulnerable. She shook her head.

‘I don’t want anything to go wrong. You’re more used to… this sort of thing. Please. I’ll pay you.’

It’s not flattering to be told that you’re a shady character and that you can be hired to do dirty work. Was that who I’d become? High time I dropped the crime column and concentrated on becoming a world affairs man.

‘Look, I offered you my advice. I think you should get the police involved, but if not, call me in the morning after you’ve
heard from them. First, ask the kidnappers for proof your husband is alive. Tell them you must speak to him before you’ll do anything. If you hear from him and it sounds straightforward then your man could make the drop.
You
could. If it sounds tricky, then… we’ll see. OK?’

She looked hard at me for a moment then nodded.

‘I’ll get Cammie to give you a lift. Where will I get you in the morning?’

‘At my desk. Phone the newsroom.’

Cammie, the chauffeur, took me home in silence. He dropped me right at Sam’s front door. The first thing I did was call her hotel, but she was out. I left a message asking her to phone me. I wanted some advice of my own. I went to bed and she still hadn’t called. But what would she have said if I’d asked her? Don’t get involved? That wasn’t how Sam worked. She knew it would be my call.

I set off the next morning all set to rebuff Lady Gibson. This wasn’t my problem. I’d prepare the story and watch it unfold from a safe distance. Then I’d write the unhappy ending. Kidnaps are always unhappy: you either lost money or a loved one; often both.

SIX

W
ullie was already at his desk and bashing away at the keys like a demented xylophone player. It was good to see the familiar roll-up stuck in the corner of his cynical mouth. The smoke curled up through his narrow moustache leaving a yellow streak and making him close one eye as though he was winking. I could see he was in mid-flow and we just nodded at each other as I went to my desk. Shortly after, he scudded across to see me in his battlewagon. I kept expecting to see flailing blades poking out from the wheel hubs. But his attacks were usually verbal.

‘Whit you up to, Brodie? Anything juicy?’

I’d already made a shorthand note of the kidnap to date and was working on a new world affairs column. I pulled off the foolscaps and carbon and handed them over. Wullie’s eyes tore down the page, his head nodding as he read. Viscount Louis Mountbatten had just announced the intended partition of India and the creation of the two independent states of India and Pakistan. It meant the loss of the shiniest jewel in our imperial crown. Violence was already erupting as the citizens of these nascent states took sides. I’d given it a local spin by suggesting it might put up the price of Lipton’s. That would trigger storms in the nation’s teacups.

‘The world’s gawin’ to hell in a hand basket, is it no’,’ he said.

‘Ever since Kilmarnock got relegated this season.’

‘They’ll be back up. If only fitba’ solved everything, eh. Anything criminal going on?’

I paused. I almost mentioned the kidnap. It would be good to get his advice. But who knew what the old rogue would do with it? There would be a column on Eddie’s desk with Wullie’s name on it before the morning was out.

‘Nothing much. I’ve got one lead but it’s probably going nowhere. You know what it’s like.’

We nattered a bit longer and then Wullie trundled off, claiming he’d got the nod about some shenanigans at the Barras. A gang was trying to impose a protection racket on stallholders and meeting bloody resistance from the independent-minded entrepreneurs of the East End.

At quarter past ten I got a signal from Elaine, one of the secretaries. She was waving a phone at me. I walked over and took the call, wondering if it was excitement or dread that was flipping my stomach over.

‘Brodie, it’s Sheila Gibson.’ Her voice was slurred and higher. I wondered when she’d started this morning.

‘What’s happening?’ I didn’t use her name, far less her title. I would keep the lid on a bit longer around the newsroom.

‘They called me.’

‘Did you speak to your husband?’

‘Yes. He’s OK. Alive anyway.’ Her voice choked.

‘What do they want you to do?’

I heard her take a deep breath.

‘Take the money to a phone box in Govan at twelve o’clock.’

‘You have it?’ I was incredulous. ‘All of it?’

‘Yes. Our bank brought the cash out first thing this morning. It’s all here.’

Wish my bank manager was so accommodating. But then why would he personally deliver my pittance to me?

‘Tell me exactly what’s to happen.’

Her voice broke. ‘Brodie! I need your help. It’s all too much.
I can feel it’s all going to go wrong. Please, please help. I’ll give you fifty pounds if you’ll deliver the money. Cammie could come round to your office right away.’

I thought for a long moment. My life was back on an even keel now. I wanted to keep on enjoying sunny days and restful nights. I wanted to prove Andrew Baird wrong that excitement had become an addiction. On the other hand, being entirely practical, fifty quid has a certain persuasive quality too. For just being a postman.

‘Get Cammie to set out now. Come to my office, where he parked yesterday. I need him to run me back to my house for something. Send him now. We need to leave plenty of time for the drop.’

‘Oh, thank you, thank you!’

For giving away £20,000? Maybe I should have asked for a percentage. Scott Fitzgerald was right: the rich are different.

I gave him twenty minutes, enough time to wonder if I was being stupid. These events rarely went to plan. And I wasn’t doing the planning. Even if it did, and I had a front-page story, I’d get hell from my pal Inspector Duncan Todd for assisting in the payment of ransom. It would only encourage the kidnappers. I had some sympathy with that.

When I emerged I heard a short beep. The Pullman was waiting at the road end. I walked to the car and waved to Cammie to stay seated. I could manage the door. I slid on to the wide leather bench in the back and we set off. There was a bulging briefcase on the seat. I sought Cammie’s gaze in his rear mirror.

‘Do you know what this is, Cammie?’

His eyes flicked between mine and the road ahead.

‘Yes, sir. The money.’

I nodded and hefted the case on to my lap. The straps were on their furthest setting. Twenty grand has substance to it. I opened the case up and pulled out a slim brick made up of
twenty-pound notes bound by a rubber band. I counted twenty notes. Four hundred pounds. A year’s salary. The briefcase was packed with another forty nine. I’d never seen a twenty before and now I had a thousand of them. Blank on one side and on the other the arms of the Scottish Linen Bank and a promise by the chief cashier to pay the bearer twenty pounds sterling on demand. Cammie wasn’t my type or I’d have suggested we elope.

I picked out each bundle and flicked through it, making sure Sheila wasn’t short-changing the kidnappers. It was the sort of stupid thing that could get folk killed. Get
me
killed. I stuffed the money-bricks back into the case and tightened the straps. Unless the notes themselves were forgeries, the full amount was there.

Cammie drove me to Park Terrace. He parked and waited while I went into Sam’s. I went upstairs to my room and pulled out the bottom drawer of my dressing table. I rummaged among my socks until I felt the Sam Browne belt and the heavy leather case. I pulled out my service holster and revolver: an Enfield No. 2 Mk 1. I slid the gun out and filled the cylinder with six .38 cartridges. For good measure I stuffed a further half-dozen shells in my pocket. The Enfield didn’t have the stopping power of the old Webley that had belonged to Sam’s father but it was lighter to carry and just as effective at close range. I couldn’t imagine having any sort of Western-style shoot-out. I tried the gun in my inside jacket pocket but it wasn’t deep enough and bulged too much. I tucked it into the rear waistband of my trousers and went back out to the car.

‘You know the address, Cammie?’

‘Yes, sir. Over in Govan.’

‘Let’s go.’

We rolled down North Street, picked up Argyle and then over the George V Bridge. The big Humber seemed to float on its
well-sprung chassis. We turned west along the Paisley Road and into the sprawling tenements and industries of Govan. No matter which way we turned the backdrop always seemed cluttered with swivelling cranes dipping in and out of the shipyards and graving docks. The residential streets contained more than their fair share of pubs. Thirsty work, shipbuilding. We followed the tramlines down the Govan Road itself then cut into Hamilton Street, lined by blackened tenements. There was a grubbiness about the buildings, and a tiredness about the few people negotiating the cracked pavements, as though everything and everyone was just too weary to care. Entropy writ small. One gaping hole through a run of tenements still showed the legacy of Goering’s raids six years ago. The council would get round to it eventually.

‘It’s quiet, Cammie.’

‘It’s Govan Fair, sir. First Friday in June. Been going on for ever, so it has.’

‘Of course. I’d forgotten. A big parade?’

‘Aye, doon at Elder Park. A motorcade wi’ the Fair Queen. They’re going past the new Vogue cinema, I hear. They’re even doin’ a film o’ the parade.’

‘That should be worth seeing. Can we avoid the traffic?’

‘Depends where we’re going. This is Hamilton Street, where we were telt to go. There’s the phone.’

He pointed through the windscreen. About a hundred yards down the deserted street was the red outline of the solitary phone box. I could see it was empty.

‘Stop here, Cammie. We’re ten minutes early.’

He pulled up by the kerb and I stared at the box and all around it. No sign of anyone lurking in a close ready to rush out and nab the cash. No parked car with Sir Fraser Gibson tied and gagged in the back seat. Only a few kids playing peevers on the pavement, one wearing callipers on his wee bent legs. Too young for the parade or not interested?

‘Stay here, Cammie.’

I got out of the Humber and tucked the revolver more securely into my waistband. I reached in and dragged out the briefcase. I closed the door and began walking towards the phone box. As I neared it I checked the time. A couple of minutes to go. I assumed there would be a phone call with instructions. I stood outside the box and waited. It was noon. Still no sign of either kidnappers or kidnapped.

‘Mister? Mister?’

I turned round. A small boy had broken off his game with his pals and now stood looking up at me. His face was dirty, his grey shirt and short trousers holed and stitched, his feet bare.

‘Look, I’m busy, pal. I’ve got no sweets and I’m waiting for a phone call.’

‘Naw, mister. This is fur you.’ He held out his grubby paw. It contained a crumpled bit of paper. I reached down and took it. The boy scarpered before I could ask him who gave him it. I looked up and round. Still nobody. And all the kids had vanished. I put the briefcase down between my feet and flattened out the paper. In childlike capital letters it read:

KELVINHAUGH FERRY. NORTH SIDE.
BE AT THE PAY BOOTH AT 12.30. COME ALONE.
WE ARE WATCHING. NO POLICE!!!!