Gallowglass (4 page)

SEVEN

I
looked up again. There were a hundred windows looking down on me. A score of entries either side of the road. The kidnappers could duck down a close, through the back greens and be on their way in seconds. To our next rendezvous. Clever move too. It would put me on the far side of the Clyde and would lessen the chance of anyone following me. I checked my watch. I had twenty-five minutes to get to the ferry and across the river. I knew the little passenger boats ran all the time but it was cutting it fine. I signalled to Cammie. The Humber sailed towards me and drew up. I jumped in.

‘It’s a game. A treasure hunt. They’re being careful. I have a new address. Can you drop me as close as you can to the Kelvinhaugh Ferry without ending up stuck in the Govan Fair?’

‘Sure. We’re heading away from the parade. Hold on.’

He put the foot down and the big car surged. We drove up on to Langlands Road and then right on to the Govan Road heading back to the city. After a couple of hundred yards we forked left on to Main Street. It must have earned its name a long time ago. It was a poor offshoot cousin of the Govan Road and was lined by more cranes, pubs and timber yards than tenements. We pulled up facing the huge graving docks that fed Prince’s Dock.

‘Up there, sir. Just at the end.’

‘Head back to Lady Gibson. With the parade it’ll be easier for me on foot. Tell her where you left me. This is going to be a long day.’

I got out with the briefcase and walked along Highland Lane. Directly ahead the Clyde glistened dull grey. I passed two dry docks on my right. Two small liners sat high and dry having their bottoms cleaned and painted. I came to the river. The far bank seemed closer than any other part of the Clyde running through the city. Perhaps it was the solid mass of the Yorkhill Quays lining the north bank; they seemed to squeeze the river at this point and make it look like a canal.

The ferry was just bobbing towards us. A tiny ungainly boat with awnings across the mid-section. Two other folk were waiting to cross. We hopped on. The ferry backed out and then headed towards the wharf that jutted out from the Queen’s Docks to the right of the Yorkhill Quays. From midriver, as I swung my gaze round, I had a sudden wide perspective on the scale of industry prompted and supported by the Clyde. The smokestacks and funnels of a host of ships jutted up from every wet and dry dock. Cranes swung back and forth like gossiping dinosaurs. The clamour of steel on steel resonated from the Freshfields yard and triggered echoes from the sawmills and foundries up and down the bustling river. Glasgow was well back on its feet.

We were quickly on the north bank and I was climbing the broad stairs up to ground level. I had a spare five minutes before my deadline at the ticket booth. I tucked the case under my arm and lit a cigarette. There was just me and the ticket man. The two other passengers were already well on their way up Sandyford Street heading to Kelvinhaugh.

‘Are ye waiting for somebody?’ asked the ticket man.

‘I was supposed to meet a fella here.’

He just nodded. ‘Would that be him?’ He pointed up the road. A cyclist was swooping towards us. A kid. He came
straight at us and skidded to a stop next to me. He was in a sweat.

‘Gibson?’ he asked.

‘Well – yes – I suppose…’

‘Here.’ He thrust his hand in his pocket and pulled out a folded paper. He stuck it in my hand, grabbed his handlebars and hauled his front wheel about. He was off.

‘Hie! Hie, you!’ But he was gone, pedalling like a mad thing. I opened up the paper.

Bastards! I was really being given the run-around.

‘Bad news?’ asked the ticket man.

‘More annoying than bad. How do I get to the Govan Ferry? Fast as possible.’

He looked at me as though I were daft.

‘Which wan?’

‘There’s more than one Govan Ferry?’

‘Oh aye. There’s the big yin, the vehicular ferry, and then further along there’s the wee yin, just for passengers.’

‘It says Water Row.’

‘That’s the big yin. Ye can see it frae here.’ He pointed west along the river.

‘Is it quicker to take your ferry back over or walk up to the Govan Ferry and cross?’

The ticket man sucked on his teeth as though I was asking him whether it was quicker to get to Australia round the Cape or via Tierra del Fuego.

‘It depends on the timetable. As it happens ye’ve just missed the wan going back frae here. So it micht be a wee bit quicker to tak’ the Govan Ferry.’

‘How do I get there?’

‘Ye go up here to Pointhouse Road, bear left and keep walking till ye come to Ferry Road jist afore the Kelvin. Cannae miss it. Go doon Ferry Road and there ye are.’

‘Thanks.’ I started off, cursing the Gibsons, the kidnappers, and myself for being stupid enough to get involved in this rigmarole. I toyed briefly with the idea of continuing to walk north. I’d soon be in Kelvingrove Park and home for tea. But what would I do with a bag full of money and a pricking conscience?

It was a long hot plod along the rear of the Yorkhill Quays past a seemingly endless line of goods sheds. I was hot and testy by the time I trudged down the slipway of the Govan car ferry. At least foot passengers didn’t have to pay and I was wafted over the river to Water Row by quarter past one. I’d gone round in a circle and crossed the Clyde twice – three times if you counted the first traverse by car. I was now within spitting distance of Hamilton Street again. I took up position by the railings near the little wooden ticket booth and waited. The next kid who ran or cycled up to me with a message was going to get a gun up his nose and told to describe who’d sent him. One thirty was showing on my watch when a man called from the booth.

‘Are you waiting for a Mr Gibson, sir?’ It was the Govan ticket man. They seemed cut from the one roll of dull cloth. Slow of speech and thought, but steady.

I called back yes.

‘There’s a phone call for you. Says it’s important.’

I threw my cigarette away and walked over. He handed me his phone.

‘Hello?’

‘D’ye huv the money?’ It was a deep rasping Glasgow brogue.

‘Do
you
have Gibson? Alive?’

‘Marr Street tenements. Number twelve. Top floor. House on the left. You’ve got fifteen minutes. No polis. If we see anyone following you, Gibson’s had it. Clear?’

‘What do I do when…?’ But the line was dead. I was about to hand the phone back to the ticket man when I wondered if I should dial 999. I was tired of this game. I should dump it on Chief Inspector Sangster and his pals. Get Duncan Todd in. But they’d take longer than fifteen minutes to get here. Hell, it would take longer than fifteen minutes to explain what I was doing here with a bag filled with twenty-pound notes. And what if the kidnappers carried out their threat?

‘Do you know where Marr Street is?’

‘It’s just doon the road. Cross over the Govan Road and then doon Helen Street. Marr is…’ He pictured it in his head. ‘. . . third on your right. There’s a factory and some tenements.’

‘Thanks, pal.’

I set off with the avowed intention of this being my last stop. Unless the handover took place in Marr Street, I was calling a halt to the whole fiasco. It was amazing how heavy a briefcase of twenty-pound notes could be. I kept changing hands as my grip grew slippy with sweat. The morning cloud cover had parted and it was getting hotter by the minute. I licked my lips as I passed the odd pub. But they were closed anyway. Maybe, like the rest of Govan, the publicans were all at the fair. Or knew their customers were there and were grabbing a long lie-in.

At last I came to Marr Street. I stood at the entrance. It was a short road. On my immediate right, a waterworks followed by a brief run of three-storey tenements. On my left, a high wall shielding a factory building. It was silent. All at the fair. Not a soul about. I checked my gun was in easy reach and walked forward into the deserted street.

EIGHT

I
t was the third entry along. I paused in front of it and looked up at the blind face of the tenements. No twitching curtain. No flickering shadow behind a window. I turned and looked around. No cars. No pedestrians. As though the whole area had been evacuated pending some awful catastrophe: earthquake, blitz, plague of frogs, shoot-out. Sweat chilled and ran down the small of my back. I shivered despite the heat of the day. I walked into the dark close, my feet echoing loudly on the solid slabs. I switched the briefcase to my left hand and took my gun in my right. I paused, waiting for my eyes to adjust. Then I began to climb, up and round, treading softly on each step.

I passed the first landing and continued to the top level. I stood poised on the last step facing two doors. I listened. From the door on the left –
my
door – came the faint sounds of music. The Andrews Sisters belting out ‘Don’t Sit Under the Apple Tree’. Silence from the right. I moved forward, feet coming down first on the outer edges.

I reached the door. No nameplate. What was the protocol for handing over a ransom? Stand and wait? Knock? Barge in shooting? I listened. It sounded like a wireless. I took a breath and used the butt of my gun to knock loudly, twice. On the second hard thump the door moved. I stopped. A chink showed. I pushed and the door swung open.

A hall beckoned. Two doors led off it. One to my left and one further down. Both doors closed. Light under each. I stepped over the sill and turned to the first door. The singing was coming from further down, from the next door. My grip tightened on the gun. I put the briefcase down on the floor and turned the handle of the door. I pushed and then shoved it hard. It banged back against the wall. A scullery. Empty. Not even a chair or a kettle. I backed out and started along the corridor. Next door, same routine. I turned the handle and flung the door wide. I had my revolver up and cocked. Bare wood floor. A wooden table lying on its side. And a wireless burbling on a mantelpiece:

I took one step forward and heard the squeak of boards behind me from the hall. I began to turn—

I was face down. Scared to move. Scared to find out how badly I was hurt. My mouth tasted of iron. Blood tastes of iron. I dragged my hand up to my face and winced at the movement. I wasn’t in a pool of blood, although my head felt as though a lump of concrete had crushed it. Some blood dribbled from my mouth and when my tongue probed, I found I’d bitten it.

Where was I? What had happened? I remember entering the tenement and climbing the stairs, but then nothing. Wait. Gibson. Had I found him?

Nothing. Just a blank.

I touched the back of my scalp. I heard a groan and realised it came from me. The back of my head was a huge tender throbbing mass. No blood, though. I began to push myself up on to hands and knees. A wave of nausea coursed through me. My vision blurred and I thought I’d keel over. I
dropped back on all fours. The pain pulsed through my skull like jolts from a bare power cable.

When my eyes focused again I got slowly and gingerly to my feet, grasping the wall for support, trying to remember where I was. How long had I been out? I turned round, eyes squinting and vision fracturing. An empty room apart from a bare wood table against the left wall. To the right, a man lying on the floor. On his back. I stumbled across and peered down. A dead man. He had that special fixed look of horror of someone who knew he was about to die – savagely. The pale eyes were open and already filming over. The other clue was the hole in his forehead. Blood had oozed from it and was still congealing. Recent.

What the hell had happened? I had no recollection of walking into this room; just scattered images. Like a broken kaleidoscope. A song:
. . . the apple tree
. . . I looked back towards the door where I’d been lying. And saw the gun. It looked familiar. Looked like my service revolver. I walked over and picked it up, and immediately regretted it. Had it been used? Had
I
used it? Had someone else? If so, had I just buggered up the prints? I checked the cylinder. One fired. Shit!

I looked around. What for? Something was missing. The song. The wireless had vanished. Something else. Something on the table? Wait. I’d come with a briefcase full of money. Where was it? I walked into the hall. Gone. So had £20,000. I groaned. Not just because my head was gowping. What a bloody mess. I went back into the room where the body lay. I was sorely tempted to simply walk out, walk away and pretend all this was a bad dream. But I couldn’t. I needed a phone box. I needed my pal, Inspector Duncan Todd. Fast.

It seemed I only had to wish and it was true. I could hear the distinct sound of a police car’s agitated bell rushing towards me. How had they found out? There was a screech. Then doors slamming and shouts from out in the street. I
walked back down the corridor to the front door. It was wide open, so I could hear the calls and the pounding boots of coppers coming rapidly up the stairs towards me. I stuffed my gun in the rear of my waistband and waited nonchalantly at the door for the much too late cavalry.

The first head that poked its way round the corner belonged to Detective Chief Inspector Walter Sangster. Oh good.

‘Brodie! What the fuck are you doing here!’ He panted to a halt on the landing. His uniformed pals crowded up behind him, all gasping for air. All staring at me. Accusingly.

‘You need to take more exercise, Sangster. Or cut out the fags.’

Sangster went even more purple. ‘What are you doing here, Brodie?’

‘I might well ask you the same question.’

He pushed his face close to mine. ‘Because Sir Fraser Gibson’s been kidnapped. Oot ma road!’

He shoved me aside and his minions charged after him. Maybe I should slip away now.

‘Fuck! Brodie!’ came the call from the back room. ‘Get your arse down here!’

Something in his voice suggested this wasn’t going to go well. I could just tell. I walked down the hall. Sangster was standing over the body.

‘Do you know who this is, Brodie?’

‘I assume it’s—’

‘It’s him! It’s Sir Fraser Gibson! The chief of the Scottish Linen Bank. Dear God!’ Sangster seemed to be having a seizure. Then his law-enforcer’s reflex cut in. Pavlov should have experimented on Glasgow cops. Sangster pointed at me. ‘Arrest this man.’

‘Sangster, you’re an awful hasty man. Let me explain.’

But by then two young constables had pinned my arms.

‘Search him!’

‘Sangster, will you just hang on a minute.’

‘Sir! Sir! Ah found this!’ The excited young officer held up my service revolver as though he’d found the grail. In Sangster’s eyes, he probably had.