Gallowglass (6 page)

ELEVEN

T
he cell
was
wee. And getting wee-er, as I paced its six by six concrete floor and contemplated the tiny high barred window from the bunk. I could push my cot close to it and reach to pull myself up to look out. But all you could see from any of the cell windows was the inner courtyard. At least it allowed some daylight to angle in.

The sense of injustice burned. Why was everybody lying or hiding? I kept trying to piece together a clear consecutive run of images of the events in the tenement but I couldn’t bridge the gaps. My brain wouldn’t let go of the puzzle that was Sheila Gibson. Why hadn’t she simply confirmed I was working for her; that I’d been carrying the ransom? Pure and simple grief at the loss of her husband? She’d seemed tougher than that. Or was she terrified that the murderers were still out there, might come after her? Maybe she was confused; what story had Sangster spun her? Had he blamed me for letting the kidnappers kill Sir Fraser?

Sam came to see me later in the day. She didn’t bring good news. When she entered my cell her tight face said it all. It was no surprise.

‘Forensics say the bullet came from the gun they took from you. And of course the serial number of the gun matched the War Office records of the gun issued to Lieutenant Colonel Douglas Brodie, six months ago.’

I could only nod, sitting hunched forward on my bed-bench.
They seemed to be pulling out all the stops. Unusually competent for this lot.

‘OK, it was my gun. What else?’

‘It has your prints on it.’

‘Of course it does. It’s mine.’ I didn’t add that I’d stupidly handled it after I picked myself off the floor.

‘Well, it doesn’t need much else to prove a prima facie case, does it?’

I shook my head. She continued.

‘Then there’re the ransom notes they found on you. Drafts, they said, for the real thing.’

‘That
proves
this is a set-up. All I had were scribbled directions from a couple of kids, sending me on a wild-goose chase round Govan. Conveniently timed for the Govan Fair, I might add. I didn’t have
ransom
notes per se. There were no notes. The demands were all done by phone. The notes must have been planted. When I was out cold on the floor at Marr Street.’

Sam just looked at me, tight-lipped. She didn’t have to say how far-fetched that would sound to a jury. And suddenly the thought took shape, became live. Me in the dock and a jury. Alice in Wonderland: ‘Sentence first –verdict afterwards.’

‘This is madness, Sam. What possible motive did I have? Sheila Gibson and her maid – probably her bloody chauffeur too – saw two masked men burst in and take away her husband. Are they saying that was
me
? I’m sure I can prove where I was at the time.’

Where was I? Lunchtime on Thursday. Sandwiches in George Square. Great. I’ll get a couple of pigeons to vouch for me. Or Sticky. Right. That would work. Sam seemed to be reading my thoughts. She shook her head. Her face took on lines round her eyes and mouth.

‘Sangster is presenting a case to the Procurator Fiscal that suggests you were the ringleader of a group of at least three men. That you decided to kill Gibson once you knew his wife had refused to pay the ransom and called in the police.’

I was spluttering now. ‘But they found me nursing a broken skull. What was that about?’

‘Thieves falling out? You killed Gibson; the others panicked and coshed you. Left you to take the blame. And anyway, Sangster says they found no sign of your injury. Far less ransom money.’

‘Christ! Feel! It’s still a big lump.’ I stroked the back of my head.

She reached forward and took both my hands.

‘Douglas. Douglas, my dear, they see it differently. Or choose to. They’ve built a case. This will be enough for the Procurator.’

‘Enough?’

It was a stupid question. I knew the answer. Could see the concern written in her eyes. The last thing a defendant needs is an anxious advocate.

‘You’re appearing on petition on Monday in front of the Sheriff.’

TWELVE

I
t was a long weekend made almost bearable by sweaty exercises and by the book Sam left me. She knew I’d go daft if left to sit and ponder my fate. She’d carried it in her handbag, and cleared it with the desk sergeant. It was good to see she still had a sense of humour about this stupid business, and expected me to share it.
The Count of Monte Cristo
by Dumas, the tale of a man wrongfully imprisoned, who escapes and then metes out justice and revenge on the men who’d arranged his incarceration. My plan exactly.

But I struggled to concentrate and found the book bleak in its parallels. I wanted to be out hammering on doors, following leads, lining up testimonies. The hours and days after a murder are the key ones for uncovering evidence, and squeezing every drop from witnesses before their memories grow clouded or distorted. Before anyone has been got at. I was desperate to be out there, hot on the trail. As a poor substitute for action I started doing my army exercises: push-ups, sit-ups, running on the spot and squats. I hung by the window bars and did pull-ups till my shoulders screamed. My old drill instructor would have been proud, except for the location.

The nights were bad. I lay tossing and fretting, my brain seething with questions. None of them getting answered. I felt the old clammy sense of being caught up between giant stones, trapped in my own head. It was both purgatory and
a blessing not to have access to alcohol. But it meant there was no release, no let-up, except when I’d exhausted myself into twitching sleep. Twice during the first night and again the following, the guard banged on my door and told me to stop shouting.

While I was grinding out the seconds in my cell, Sam was choosing a solicitor to handle the initial call and response between defence and prosecution. The three of us convened in my new abode first thing Monday morning before the court hearing. I was heartened to see it was John Dalziel, a Glasgow lawyer whom Sam had worked with before. A short round man with bottle glasses, and sharper than he looked. His pudgy mildness hid a lightning brain and a knowledge of the law that tested any prosecuting team and, occasionally, the Sheriff.

‘Tell me in your own words, Mr Brodie, the whole story.’ Dalziel smiled encouragingly. I recounted my tale while he scribbled notes. At the point where I was explaining waking up next to the dead man, he looked up.

‘Are you saying you have no precise recollection of the events surrounding the shooting?’

‘I can’t even remember going into the room. Not really. I recall hearing music, the Andrews Sisters, on a wireless. It was coming from the flat where they found Gibson. Then, things get blurred. I don’t have a clear sequence. Like missing photos in an album. I went from standing outside to waking up with my head on fire next to Gibson’s body.’

Dalziel took off his thick specs and looked even more like a bewildered forest animal that has blundered into a searchlight. He polished them on his tie while shaking his head.

‘Not that it matters. Even if you could remember everything, and it showed that someone coshed you and killed Gibson, we’d struggle to get a jury to believe you.’

‘What! Are you saying
you
don’t? Time you found me another solicitor, Sam.’

He sighed and his fat chest heaved and rippled.

‘I’m just commenting on the story itself. What
I
believe is neither here not there. There will be no stinting of my efforts on your behalf, I assure you.’

‘Well, it’s material to me, Dalziel! And if I can’t rely on you being fully on my side, then we should part company.’

I knew I was being unreasonable but I had every cause. Sam leaned over and touched my arm.

‘He
is
on your side, Douglas.’

‘Of that you can be sure, Mr Brodie. And – for the record – I do actually believe you’re
not
guilty.’

I studied him. He seemed to be telling the truth. But I was suspicious. ‘Why? Even to my ears it sounds fanciful. And if so, do you think you could persuade fifteen jurors of the same truth?’

‘Why? It doesn’t fit. None of this rings true for Douglas Brodie. Not with your past record. Not with how you’ve been talking. And there are too many leaps of imagination by Sangster and his crew.’

‘Such as?’

‘How they knew where to come, for one. And their claim that Lady Gibson, her maid and her chauffeur have been so flattened by this tragedy that they’ve been unable or unwilling to confirm your employment on her behalf. Miss Campbell has already raised the latter with the Procurator Fiscal and we hope to obtain some clarification this afternoon. It ought to lead to a quick dismissal of the case or at least get you out on bail until we can kill the charges. As it stands – unless we get Lady Gibson’s testimony of support – they have enough evidence to get you through all the preliminaries to full trial in the High Court.’

Full trial? Dear God. I’d felt so dazed from lack of sleep and from turning the situation over and over that I hadn’t let the thought of a High Court grilling enter my mind.

‘No need to sound so enthusiastic, Dalziel.’

He had the grace to look sheepish. I suppose a juicy murder case made a nice change from petty theft and traffic violations. But as the notion digested in me I knew he was right. I’d seen enough of these procedures in the past to know appearing on petition is pretty much a formality on the path to a full trial. But surely I’d prove the exception? We’d soon find that this was all a silly mistake and that Sangster had acted like an over-eager amateur again.

That afternoon, I was marched through the rabbit warren of Turnbull Street from the police cells to the District Court. There in a small closed room with no members of the public and certainly no press, the Sheriff listened to the charges. Dalziel sat on a front bench next to the Procurator Fiscal’s man. Two rows behind Dalziel sat Sam, trying to look as though she was there by accident or mere curiosity. The Sheriff knew her, though. His eyes scanned the court as he came in and we all stood. I saw a brief nod pass between them as he sat down.

I sat to one side, in the dock, a bystander to the discussions and ruminations about my own fate. I listened with growing disbelief and irritation to the charges being read out and a brief description of the chain of events – as seen by the prosecution – leading up to the kidnap, the imprisonment and the murder of Sir Fraser Gibson. Alexandre Dumas might have made better use of such a plot, but it sounded pretty damning.

The prosecutor was drawing to a close.

‘We therefore petition the court’s approval to take the next steps in investigating this crime. This will involve gathering all evidence, interviewing all witnesses and arranging for written reports on the accused’s background and character…’

The prosecutor stood back and left the field to Dalziel. Normally at this point – as I recalled it – the accused’s solicitor makes no plea or declaration about innocence. But this
time Dalziel – prompted telepathically by Samantha Campbell, silent advocate – was all set to get the case thrown out.

‘If it please, my lord, we have just listened to the charges by the prosecution. We submit that these charges are without foundation.’

The Sheriff leaned over. ‘I’m sure you think that, Mr Dalziel, but the charges have been made and must be examined. Such examination cannot happen in this court, can it?’ He smiled indulgently.

‘My lord, we well understand that, but this case is exceptional. The accused is the chief crime reporter for the
Glasgow Gazette
. His involvement in the tragic case was purely tangential in the course of his investigative duties. There appears to be a fundamental error in this petition. The charges claim that Mr Brodie was the chief instigator of this dreadful crime when in fact he was acting
on behalf of
Lady Gibson in trying to resolve the kidnap without loss of life. A simple question to the tragic widow of Sir Fraser Gibson would elicit this fact and we are sure his lordship would immediately set aside the whole case against my client. This is something we have been actively pursuing with the Procurator Fiscal.’

The prosecutor got to his feet. ‘My lord—’

‘No need, just give me a moment,’ said the Sheriff, peering at the sheaf of papers in front of him. He picked one up and brandished it at the prosecutor. ‘Is this properly signed and witnessed?’

‘Yes, my lord.’

He then waved it at Dalziel. ‘Have you seen this, Mr Dalziel?’

Dalziel stepped forward, took the single page and read it slowly once and then again. His jaw muscles tightened under his jowls. He swallowed.

The Sheriff asked, ‘This is the sworn testimony of whom, Mr Dalziel?’

‘It purports to be from Lady Gibson, my lord.’

‘And what does the good lady say?’

Dalziel coughed and glanced round at me before replying.

‘Lady Gibson claims that she has never met the accused and did not appoint him to help her. She states that she knows only of Mr Brodie through his work as a reporter, but has never communicated with him either by telephone or in writing.’

I heard Sam make a stifled
no
. My world dropped away. The bitch!

THIRTEEN

D
alziel returned the letter to the Sheriff and turned to go back to his bench. He took off his glasses and his big unfocused eyes turned my way. He raised an eyebrow as if to say: We’re stuffed. But he turned to face the Sheriff and had another crack at it.

‘Clearly there is some confusion here, my lord, and we are sure it will be easily cleared up. I imagine Lady Gibson is distraught at this time and naturally will not be quite herself. But while accepting that the petition might indeed contain sufficient weight for you to send my client to trial, we would in the meantime request bail for the defendant. We would remind the court that Mr Brodie is a former detective sergeant in the Glasgow police and served with distinction until called to the colours. During the war he rose through the ranks to became a decorated officer who fought valiantly for his country. Furthermore, in the first quarter of this year, Mr Brodie worked closely with the police in the successful disruption and capture of escaped war criminals hiding in this very city.’

The Sheriff was nodding, apparently sympathetically. Apparently.

‘I am well aware of Mr Brodie’s exploits in this matter. He wrote vividly about them and he is to be congratulated on his endeavours. However, brave deeds by themselves do not exonerate anyone from a criminal charge.’

‘That’s as may be, my lord. But Mr Brodie’s war record and his public profile are such that there is a negligible chance of his absconding before a trial. We would even accept a requirement for his reporting weekly to a police station.’

The prosecutor pounced. ‘My lord, the charges are so serious as to make bail almost unseemly. The public will neither accept nor understand how someone accused of such terrible crimes could be allowed to walk the streets. Particularly as Lady Gibson herself – poor lady – has made a sworn statement which completely contradicts the defendant’s version of events. This leaves her open to possible harassment by the accused if he were out on bail. We therefore request that the defendant be remanded in custody pending trial.’

The Sheriff was nodding again. Shit! I was going to be banged up for months while awaiting trial! I couldn’t do this. I’d go mad.

‘My lord?’ All eyes turned to the body of the court. Sam was on her feet.

The Sheriff nodded to her. ‘Miss Campbell, I believe?’

‘Yes, my lord. I ask you to excuse my addressing you from the body of the court but I have something material to contribute.’

The prosecutor was on his feet. ‘My lord, this is completely irregular…’

The Sheriff raised a hand. ‘I know, I know. This whole case is. I’m sure Advocate Samantha Campbell would not presume to waste the court’s time unless she had something of substance to bring to the attention of the court. Miss Campbell?’

Sam took a deep breath. ‘May I approach, my lord?’ She held out a piece of paper.

The Sheriff beckoned her forward and took the piece of paper. Sam stood back and spoke.

‘As you will see, my lord, this is a letter couriered from London late yesterday evening. You will be glad, I am sure, that
this court is cleared to the public. The letter is from the Sir Percy Sillitoe, head of a
particular
Government department.’

My heart lightened. Brilliant, Sam. She’d never even mentioned it to me; it was a card only to be played
in extremis
. Then my stomach lurched;
extremis
was exactly where we were.

The Sheriff read it. ‘It would appear so.’

Sam continued: ‘I would add that the information contained in the letter – indeed even to acknowledge the existence of Sir Percy and his department – must go no further than the personnel in this court.’ She looked round the court officials to make certain they had understood and felt bound by what she was saying. She went on.

‘This letter tells the court that Mr Brodie – or rather,
Lieutenant Colonel
Douglas Brodie – is a serving member of His Majesty’s Security Service.’

Both Dalziel and the prosecutor stepped forward and read the letter in turn. The prosecutor was first to react.

‘My lord, this revelation is entirely irrelevant to these charges. In the same way that Mr – Lieutenant Colonel – Brodie’s distinguished war record is irrelevant. Perhaps it makes the accusations all the more tragic, but it does not nullify them.’

The Sheriff thought for a long moment while I held my breath.

‘I’m afraid I agree, Miss Campbell. Unless you have anything to add, simply being a senior member of the intelligence services is not material.’

‘My lord, I accept that trial is the only way forward to resolve this complicated matter, but my point is to underpin the case for bail. Colonel Brodie is hardly likely to attempt to flee the country. His good name is at stake and he has the personal backing of Sir Percy Sillitoe who, I would remind the court, is a former chief constable of this city.’

For a second, I thought she’d won, but the Sheriff, after a further mulling, shook his head.

‘It is a powerful argument, Miss Campbell. However, a knight of the realm has been cruelly kidnapped and murdered. There is a public interest in seeing justice done. We will take this case on to the next stage. There will be a private hearing in no less than eight days’ time at which point this court will decide on whether or not to commit the accused fully to trial. Both sides have this period of eight days to bolster their arguments. But in the meantime, the accused shall be remanded in custody.’

Knight trumps knave. As I was led down, I nodded at Sam. She and I had discussed this possible outcome and we’d agreed she’d head straight off to Kilmarnock to tell my mother the whole dismal story. I’d hoped the matter would have gone away at the hearing and I could have driven down to Kilmarnock myself and had a good laugh with her over a silly misunderstanding in the middle of a horrendous and tragic murder. But now the press would be full of it and my name – and hers – would be dragged gleefully through the midden. It was essential that Mum heard the real story from Sam before the first neighbours offered their ‘sympathies’.

Later in my cell, I lost the place with poor Dalziel. I was pacing from side to side, slapping the wall at each turn.

‘You’ve got to get me out of here!’

‘We did everything we could.’

‘Clearly you didn’t! I’m still here!’

‘The sworn statement from Lady Gibson was the killer. We weren’t told about it. Even if we’d known it would still have taken the feet out from under us.’

‘She’s lying! It’s clear she’s lying.’

‘Why? Why would she?’

‘Oh, so you think
I’m
lying!’

Round and round we went, getting nowhere. I knew I was being unfair but I couldn’t stop myself. The Procurator Fiscal’s man was right; I would be straight round hammering on Sheila Gibson’s door, lying in wait for her bloody chauf
feur, rounding up witnesses. Anything to get me out of here. But there came a moment when I realised I’d switched from slapping the walls to punching them; my knuckles were bleeding. I sat down on my bunk and grew still. Was there just a chance that I’d lost my mind? That the combat stress Doc Baird warned me about had exploded again? And what
had
happened in that room? Could I have shot Gibson?

Dalziel took the chance to slide out of the door vowing all the time that he’d leave no stone uncovered to prove my innocence. He would have his work cut out. I turned back to my book to see if I could steal some hope and ideas from the Count of Monte Cristo. But the pages were a blur.