Gallowglass (8 page)

SIXTEEN

M
y zen-like journey to perdition was interrupted a few days later by another visitor. I was led to a small interview room, annoyed at having to leave my familiar box. He’d come with Sam. A distant part of me was glad to see her. In front of the duty officer who’d ushered them in Sam introduced him as a new member of my legal team. Reinforcements, she joked. He looked like an insurance salesman: colourless, bland, specs, someone you’d meet at a party and have to be introduced three times before his name and face stuck. He was tall, my height but skinny, though there was a hint of wiry strength. I saw no point in him.

‘Harry Templeton. Nice to meet you, Mr Brodie.’

A languorous English accent accompanied the requisite flop of hair. He stuck out his hand. I gazed at it, then studiously ignored it. I took in the tie. Unless he was a fraud, the distinctive maroon and navy stripes with the repeating gold crest proclaimed Grenadier Guards. Christ. That’s all I needed. Some poncy Sassenach with a top club tie. What was he? A trainee lawyer come to slum it, inspect the hard-core villains? I certainly looked the part.

Sam must have seen my boiling frustration. She gripped my arm and put a finger to her mouth. I took a deep breath and tried to get hold of myself. She waited till the door was fully closed and the three of us were left alone, then sat back. At that, Harry came alive, as though his spirit had returned
to his body. Or an actor had cast aside his stage character. He stuck his specs in his breast pocket and leaned forward. Suddenly his blue eyes were focused and full of intelligence and intent.

‘Templeton isn’t my real name, but it’ll do. Call me Harry. Sir Percy sent me.’

For the first time in two and a half weeks I felt a surge of something other than despair. It couldn’t be hope. Curiosity? My boss at MI5 hadn’t forgotten me. His letter to the Sheriff at the first court hearing hadn’t got us anywhere and I’d thought that was it. That he didn’t want MI5 involved any further in something so dirty. He’d activated me at the start of the year to track down the fascists infesting Glasgow, but he’d always made it clear that if I got into trouble, in public, I was on my own. I looked at Sam. She was smiling faintly now. Also for the first time in weeks. I shrugged. So what? Harry Templeton – was either a real name? – pulled out a silver cigarette case and passed it round.

‘Seems you’re in a spot of bother, Mr Brodie.’

‘I love your English understatement, Harry.’

‘We need to get you out of here.’

I stared at him, then at Sam. She nodded.

‘Music to my ears. But I think you’ll find that the Procurator Fiscal intends keeping me here until they can send me to the gallows.’

‘Don’t, Douglas!’

‘Sorry, Sam. Just being realistic.’

I was sorry to see Harry nodding in agreement.

‘It does seem a pretty watertight case, Mr Brodie. Almost like a set-up, don’t you think?’

‘Just Brodie. I
do
think.’

‘So do we. What do you know about Gibson, Brodie? Other than that he was head of the Scottish Linen Bank?’

‘Nothing. I was aware of him in a general sense, as one of the Scottish establishment. But that’s it.’

‘We’ve been watching him for the past few months.’

‘“We” being you and our mutual boss?’

He nodded. ‘We’ve been watching Gibson personally and his bank in general.’

‘Why?’

‘Rumours. Nothing much. Straws in the wind. Drinking, women, that sort of thing.’

‘Sounds suspiciously normal for Glasgow.’

‘But not if you’re head of Scotland’s largest retail bank. And an issuing bank to boot. The timing is – how shall I put it? – inconvenient.’

I paused to think what he might mean. Just lately world affairs had taken a back seat to my own affairs.

‘The Yankee loans?’

He nodded. ‘Early last year, just before he died, John Maynard Keynes – bless his soul – managed to persuade the US of A and Canada to lend us nearly four and half billion dollars. It culminated in the Anglo-American Agreement of the fifteenth of July 1946 and saved our bacon just after the end of Lend-Lease.’

‘A lot of dough.’

‘But of course you’ll recall it came with strings? One of the biggest – more a noose actually – was that sterling would become convertible exactly a year later, on the fifteenth of July 1947. About three weeks’ time.’

‘Remind me why that matters? I recall a lot of noise in Parliament last year. Accusations flying about the end of Empire. The Labour Government selling the nation’s silver to pay for its Welfare Bill. Etcetera.’

‘Britain stays afloat – just – by virtue of our overseas colonies. We can buy and sell the goods we need from abroad because we have favoured-nation deals. And because we didn’t permit the colonies to swap the pound for something more tradable.’

‘Like the dollar.’

‘Exactly. In three weeks’ time, that barrier will be lifted and there is a real possibility that countries will convert some or all of their sterling holdings to the dollar. I know I would. The dollar is becoming the de facto gold standard internationally.’

‘And the result in Britain?’

‘A run on the pound. Britain’s dollar reserves depleted. And we find we can’t pay our way in the world. Treasury nerves are frayed. Smelling salts at the Bank of England. The last thing we need is for one of our main banks to get into trouble. Especially an issuing bank. It’s amazing how quickly the international markets can lose confidence in a country if they think we’re printing money without collateral. News of trouble at Scottish Linen could open the flood gates.’

‘You think there’s more to this than the kidnap and murder of the boss?’

‘We don’t know. And we don’t want to send the troops in because it will have the same effect of undermining confidence. We’ve already had some delicate questions raised by our friends across the water. They read the papers in Washington too.’

‘Bit of a problem then, Harry.’

‘It gets worse.’

‘That already sounds plenty.’

‘You know about the Marshall Plan?’

‘Hah. It was the last column I wrote just before I ended up in this mess. An aid programme for the reconstruction of Europe.’

Harry nodded. ‘Just as we hit the date for convertibility a crucial meeting takes place in Paris to decide on the loan amounts.’

‘And Britain will be setting out its alms bowl.’

‘Quite. A banking scandal could leave it empty. Or at the very least embarrass the Government. They don’t like losing face. Admitting that Britain is an upper-class pauper.’

‘What do you think’s happening at Scottish Linen that’s so damning?’

‘We don’t know. That’s the trouble. During the war and its aftermath, there wasn’t quite as much supervision as we could have hoped. Tempting opportunities for a rogue banker.’

‘You think that’s what Gibson was up to? Embezzling?’

He shrugged. ‘Something pongs a bit. There’s plenty of opposition in America to pouring more money into the bottomless pit of Europe. If they thought it was going into someone’s back pocket, we’d never get it. The Chancellor is personally looking to Sir Percy to sort this out. Fast. And
quietly
.’

That was it. I’d heard enough.

‘
Something pongs?
The Chancellor wants it sorted out,
quietly
? I don’t care if you make a noise like Krakatoa going off! Sorry to be so parochial about this, Harry, but if you’ve got all these suspicions, why the bloody hell have you let me end up in the frame?’

He had the grace to wince. ‘Apologies, old chap, but it’s not that easy. We don’t think it’s coincidence that the head of the bank is bumped off and you get the blame. Someone is pulling strings and we want to know who and why.’

‘Mean time,
old chap
, I’m banged up facing a murder trial!’

Harry began signalling I should calm down by flapping both hands up and down in front of my face. If he didn’t pack it in I was about ready to bite his fingers off. Sam read me again; she reached out and squeezed my forearm. I swallowed and tried to get my composure back.

‘Well, Harry, can you kindly lift the pace? I’m getting stir-crazy. And, unlikely as it sounds, I’m running out of Dickens.’

He was nodding furiously. ‘Trouble is, the firm has no one up here with local knowledge or cover. And we absolutely must avoid any scandal, which would be inevitable if we blunder around the bank’s back office arresting people. Particularly if we don’t know whom to arrest or why.’

I switched from shouting to sneering. ‘Well, I’d love to help, but as you can see, the bad guys are out there and I’m in here.’

There it was; MI5 knew something dirty was going on and that I’d been made the fall guy. But they were hamstrung by fear of bad publicity, and Glasgow was a bridge too far to mount an operation. Templeton had been sent all this way to tell me to keep my chin up, that I wasn’t alone. Really? It didn’t feel like it.

The black dog began snapping at my heels again.

SEVENTEEN

T
he next day, at half past ten, Advocate Samantha Campbell and her colleague Harry Templeton returned to Turnbull Street and asked to see the prisoner. His cell would do. No need to set up the interview room. The tall Englishman was the first through the door. The prisoner’s advocate was right by his shoulder and screamed as she entered.

Harry shouted, ‘My God! Officer! Get an ambulance!’

The constable tried to push past to see what the commotion was about. He took one look and saw enough.

‘Och, no!’

‘Officer, quick! Get an ambulance. We’ll get him down. Fast as you can!’

Harry, in full command of the situation as only a former Guards officer could be, grabbed the young constable, spun him round and pushed him out of the door. Then he turned and stepped up on the bunk. He tugged at the torn sheet tied carefully through the window bars and just as carefully looped round the neck. Then he and Sam lifted and then lowered the prisoner down on the bunk. Sam knelt beside the bunk and flung herself over the still body.

‘No, oh no! Douglas, you can’t! Don’t go! Don’t leave me!’

The young constable came running back, followed by the puffing desk sergeant. Both in a lather. Sam leaped up, tear-stained face contorted. She blocked their way and began screaming at them.

‘When did you last see him? How could you leave him alone! Douglas Brodie’s dead! He’s dead! And you lot will pay for this!’

She began flailing at the chest of the sergeant. He stepped back in panic at this assault by the blond harridan.

‘Miss Campbell, we didnae think he was a risk! We check every hour. Jamie here was round to see him just a wee while back. Is that not so, Jamie?’

Jamie looked as though he’d drop. ‘Ah did, Ah really did. Ah thocht he was fine. Quiet, of course. He’s been in a dwam for some days noo. But Ah didnae ken he’d dae sic a thing!’

Both uniforms were pushed back to the door but they had a clear view of Douglas Brodie lying on his back, not breathing, the pallor of death on the face, the bare neck a mass of red contusions, tongue poking out. Dead all right. Harry sprang up. Grenadier Guard issuing commands again.

‘Never mind who’s to blame. Where’s the damned ambulance? There’s no sign of life, but I won’t give up. Constable, go and see. Miss Campbell, please take the sergeant back to his desk and check the log. We need to see if anyone is at fault,’ he said with heavy meaning. He turned and looked down at Brodie and shook his head. ‘There’s nothing you can do here.’

For a few minutes it was quiet in the corridor, then shouts arose and two figures in white ran into the cell carrying a rolled-up stretcher between them. They were followed by a white-coated man with a stethoscope round his neck. They clustered round the still figure on the cot. Harry moved to the door and kept the police uniforms at bay. Sam clung to Harry’s arm and watched from the doorway. The doctor stood up and hung his stethoscope back round his neck.

‘I’m afraid it’s too late. This man is dead.’

Sam gasped and hid her face. ‘No! Oh, no. This can’t be right.’

‘I’m sorry, miss. Are you his wife?’

‘No, I mean yes. No. I’m his advocate. But he lives with me. I mean I’m his landlady.’

The doctor became less brusque. ‘I’m very sorry. But we need to clear the cell now. My men will take— What did you say the prisoner’s name was?’

‘Brodie. Douglas Brodie,’ Sam whispered.

‘We will take Mr Brodie to the hospital. We’ll do a postmortem, but the cause of death seems fairly apparent.’

A muttering crowd had gathered in the foyer of the police station, a mix of uniform and plain clothes. They fell silent and watched with ghoulish curiosity as the two ambulance men brought the heavy stretcher out from the cells. A white cloth was draped over the body. Behind them came the distraught figure of the prisoner’s lawyer, helped by her colleague. The double doors were held open and the men solemnly carried their burden through and out into the street where another crowd was forming. They lifted the body into the back of the ambulance and helped the grieving woman inside. The two ambulance men got in the front. The white-coated doctor climbed inside with Samantha Campbell.

The tall Englishman who’d taken charge of events closed the doors and watched as the ambulance slowly drew away. The urgency had gone out of the situation. There was no need now to ring the bell. The onlookers lapped together in the wake of the ambulance to gossip and dissect what had just happened. The Englishman straightened his tie, buttoned his jacket, shot his cuffs. Job done. He did a smart right turn and strode briskly off, arms swinging in time to an internal but spirited rendition of ‘The British Grenadiers’.

Inside the ambulance all was quiet, until:

‘Can I breathe now?’ I asked.

‘Wait a minute.’ Sam pulled the curtains over the windows. ‘OK now.’

I sat up. Then I held her tightly to me. ‘You were brilliant, Sam. You can stop crying now.’

‘Och, they weren’t real tears.’ More fell.

‘Wheesht. Wheesht. It’s all going to be all right now.’

‘Don’t you ever die on me again, Douglas Brodie.’ She sniffed and dug out a hankie.

‘I promise.’ I turned to the ‘doctor’. He was grinning.

‘How did it go? No problems?’

‘All fine, sir.’

‘Did you come up from London overnight?’

‘We slapped some paint on one of our vans yesterday, changed the plates and drove through the night. Doesn’t bear too close an inspection.’

Sam prodded me. ‘Talking of paint, I hope you’ve got my make-up? That lipstick was expensive.’

‘And better on your lips than my neck. In my pocket. What happens now?’

‘We change transport. And you go into a safe place.’

‘Where?’

Sam grinned. ‘You’ve still got some friends.’