Gallowglass (9 page)

EIGHTEEN

W
e drove for a while and I keeked out between the curtains to see where we were. Suddenly we were pulling into a yard somewhere in the East End. We stopped and the doors were opened. One of the ambulance men stood there, smiling.

‘All change,’ he said. ‘God, you look poorly, sir. I’d take something for that.’

‘I had a whisky in mind.’

‘I’d take a couple. Be on the safe side.’

They threw their white coats in the back of the ambulance and I stepped down on to the cobbles. I could now see where the white paint had been slopped on the van’s sides and how the overnight drive had marred its surface. One of the men drove it into a garage in the forecourt. He emerged in a smart Morris Ten. Sam and I climbed in the back and we were off. I pulled a hat down on my head and sank down in my seat. I was so low I could only see the top half of buildings but knew we were heading back to the city centre.

We bumped down one of the narrow back lanes that ran parallel to the main streets throughout the centre. Tradesman’s entrance. We stopped and sat for a moment. The driver turned.

‘Clear. Good luck, sir.’

Now I knew where we were. We ducked out of the car just as a door opened up in one of the back walls of a building. We
were inside in a second, into pitch dark. The door closed behind us and I heard the car drive off. A faint light came on from somewhere up ahead. A big bear of a man stepped forward with both hands held out. His great black beard emphasised his glowing eyes.

‘Shalom, Douglas.’

‘Shalom, Shimon. It’s good to see you.’

We shook hands, double-handed, like long-lost brothers. I nearly embraced him.

‘Shimon, I’m sorry, you’re taking a great risk.’

‘Nonsense, Douglas. After what you risked for me? For us? This is nothing. Come through. Your quarters are waiting. It is a poor thing but you are most welcome.’

Despite his smoky colouring and his yarmulke, Shimon Belsinger’s accent was posh Glaswegian: born and bred in Hyndland. His parents had made the thousand-mile trek from Estonia fleeing the Tsar’s pogroms. Shimon was as Scottish as Sam or me.

Did he owe me? I didn’t see it that way. Six months back I’d helped Shimon track down a burglar that was pestering his community. But in the process I’d stirred up a wasps’ nest. Or, more correctly, a rats’ nest of fascists fleeing judgment for war crimes. Before I could bring an end to the bloodletting, five people had died, including one of my oldest friends. Shimon himself had barely escaped with his life.

It was a bad period for me and until the roof fell in on me on the day of the Govan Fair I thought I’d put it behind me. But some good comes out of even the darkest hours; here I was, reaping what I’d sown. I took it, gladly. It was astonishing how my heart was lifting at such kindness, at someone taking such a risk for me. And I was also simply grateful to get out of my concrete holding pen.

Shimon led us both through a maze of crates and piled furniture to a clear area. It was a snug little corner of his warehouse at the back of his furniture shop in Candleriggs. I
looked around. A lamp glowed on top of a crate. An army cot was neatly set up with blankets and a pillow. Beyond, against the wall, was a sink and tap. Incongruously, in the small open space between the cot and us was a table covered by a white cloth and surrounded by three upturned boxes. The Ritz. We each chose a box.

I looked around me hardly believing I was here. I suddenly felt overwhelmed by it all. I realised my legs were vibrating and pushed my hands down on to my thighs. If anyone had asked me to speak just then I’d have choked. My throat was constricted. Sam saw what was happening and pulled her crate closer to me and squeezed my hands. She took out a cigarette and lit it for me. I took a deep drag, felt dizzy and sick all at the same time, and bowed my head till it had passed. After a while Sam and I held hands without a hint of self-consciousness. Shimon smiled indulgently. I took some deep breaths and found my voice. It sounded shaky.

‘This is cosy, Shimon.’

‘It is the best I could do. But you will be safe here. For a while.’

‘It’s a thousand times better than my recent quarters. Thank you.’

Just then a bell rang from somewhere behind us. I jumped, my heart thudding in my chest. It rang twice, stopped, then two more times. Shimon got up.

‘We have a visitor.’ He disappeared among the packing crates and came back with Harry Templeton in tow. I got up and shook his hand. We grinned at each other. He found a fourth box and we formed a conspiratorial circle. I was beginning to think this was real. I was out, but what now? Had we got away with it? What could I achieve?

‘What now, Harry?’

‘In a way, that’s up to you, Brodie. Sillitoe sends his regards and says you’re back on the payroll. Though he also said the
usual rules apply: he would deny it if things go wrong. You understand?’

‘Perfectly. But how much worse could they get? Don’t bother to answer that. What does he expect us to do?’

‘Not “us”, Brodie. You. I’m heading south tonight. So are my colleagues. Job over for the moment. We’ll leave a contact number for emergencies but ’fraid you’re on your own, old chum, for the time being.’

‘To do what?’

He raised his fingers one at a time. ‘One, find out who killed Gibson. And two, why. Three, find out what’s going on at Scottish Linen – we presume the two are linked. Four, in the process, clear your name and hence the Service’s.’

‘Is that all?’

He just smiled and handed round his cigarette case. I ought to get one.

‘The clock’s ticking on the financial time bomb. We need to find out how bad things are at Scottish Linen and prevent an explosion in international – make that American – confidence in British finances. The drop-dead date’s the fifteenth of July. But we must have answers before then. The Yanks are asking more questions. And the panic’s rising.’

‘What’s today’s date?’

‘Thursday, twenty-sixth of June. You’ve less than three weeks, Brodie. Call it two.’

I drew a deep breath. My first thought was that I had a fortnight to find a way of disappearing. Maybe follow the fascists to Argentina. Perón seemed happy to take anyone. My second thoughts were:

‘The police saw a body leave their nick. Doesn’t there need to be a burial? An autopsy? Paperwork? How much of this charade do we have to complete?’

Harry exchanged glances with Sam.

‘All of it, I’m afraid. To be free to pursue your mission, Brodie, you need to be dead. Moreover, you need to be
seen
to be dead.’

What a bloody mess. Sam put on a wry smile. She squeezed my hand again.

‘We can do this, Douglas. We have to. Let me tell you, Sangster and his pals had a nigh-on watertight case. I don’t know who was behind this or why, but they stitched it up good and proper.’

‘Stitched
me
up. Well, it wouldn’t have been Sangster, that’s for sure. He doesn’t have the talent.’

‘Whoever it was lined up the evidence and the witnesses to virtually guarantee conviction.’

‘And execution?’

Now she gripped my hand tightly. ‘So it’s just as well you’re already dead.’

‘All we need now is last rites. How am I going to explain
this
to my mother?’

Sam said, ‘I’m going to see her right now. I’ll drive down to Kilmarnock before she hears it on the news. And it
will
be on the news. You’ve already caused enough of a stir. This will be sensational.’

I winced. ‘And will it say I committed suicide?’

She looked rueful but nodded.

‘Not much of an epitaph.’ I sighed. ‘You’d better get going, Sam. My mum will kill me when she finds out.’

It got smiles all round, except from me.

NINETEEN

I
spent the next four days regaining some equilibrium and doing some planning. I heard from Shimon and Sam that the furore was dying down and I was moving off the front pages. I asked both to spare me the details. It was time to get going. But there was one last piece of public deception required.

On the last night of June, Sam drove into the unlit back lane serving Shimon’s store. I slipped out of the back door and into the Riley. Reversing the flow, Sam drove up to Park Terrace and down her own tradesman’s lane, and I sneaked into her house.

First thing I did was luxuriate in a hot bath. Sam insisted on it before I was allowed near her. She kindly scrubbed my back but declined my selfless offer that she should join me. It made it all the more delicious and surprisingly naughty to share a bed with her again. I was a schoolboy sneaking into his girlfriend’s house while her parents were out. We didn’t seem to have forgotten how to make each other happy, though I’d have settled for just holding her in my arms all night through.

Lying there listening to her breathe, I looked back with shame and wonder at my suicidal self of a week ago. See what I would have missed. My emotions were on a Big Dipper ride. Come morning I holed up in the kitchen while Sam went off to pick up my sore-pressed mother from Kilmarnock.

It was an emotional reunion: the first time I’d seen her since I’d been jailed. I’d refused point blank to have her visit me in a cell.

‘I like the beard. It suits you.’ She rubbed her face, then mine. A deep red mat was already thickening round my chin.

‘Camouflage, Mum. Sorry.’

I was more sorry for the hot tears I felt running down her face, and I took a moment to dry them off with my hankie. It didn’t stop the flow but Sam had done a fine job of preparing her for my ‘death’ and what was to follow.

‘I didnae mind hearing about you on the wireless, for Samantha had warned me. And it didnae seem real. But see oor neighbours!’

‘I thought they’d be kind, Mum?’

‘Oh aye, kindness mixed wi’ nosiness. They couldnae wait to get the facts so they could a’ sit around and gossip about us.’

‘They always did, Mum. You and Dad were different.’

‘That’s the truth. Some o’ them see it as comeuppance.’

‘What for, Agnes?’ asked Sam.

‘For sending my boy to university instead of down the pit like the rest of the lads in Bonnyton.
Ken your place
are the local watchwords.’

Later, I hugged them both in their black ensembles and watched them set off into the downpour. A suitable backcloth for a bleak pantomime. The rain had been pelting down for hours, compounding my guilt. On a day like this, on a venture like this, an old woman could catch a chill – pneumonia…

They were picking up Wullie McAllister and his companion, Stewart, en route. Despite Sam’s best efforts to put off mourners – I still struggled to cope with the pain and bother I was causing – Wullie had stubbornly insisted on paying his respects. Shame he’d saved them till now. Neither man knew I was alive, so it loaded added pressure on Sam and my mother to go through with this terrible charade.

To while away the time, I made a phone call. I knew from a recent letter they’d had the phone installed. Business was so good on Arran they needed one to handle the enquiries. The response was everything I could have hoped for and took the edge off a bitter day.

Now I stood peering out of a slit in the heavy curtains in the first-floor lounge, impatient for their return, checking my watch, calculating the mileage to Kilmarnock and back, and the possible length of the rituals. I’d insisted it was kept simple. No church, no hymns, no mourners. My mother had argued; despite the sham nature of the ceremony she felt it wasn’t seemly. I patiently explained that there was nothing about this whole business that was seemly, and that the quicker and simpler the process, the better. In that sense I could have wished that Wullie had kept his distance. I only hoped that Sam would have been able to put him off coming back for the ritual drink and sandwiches.

At last I saw the converted Bedford creep up Park Terrace and pull up outside. It stopped tight against the kerb, tyre-deep in the gutter coursing with water. I wanted to rush out and help but had to stand and watch as the driver got out and held up a huge umbrella as the van disgorged. Damn! Wullie and Stewart were climbing out. What the hell should I do? Stay upstairs till they’d gone? Had Sam already confessed? What could I say to him? Could I trust Wullie to keep silent? I was neurotic enough about being on the run. It seemed only a matter of time before I was recaptured.

I closed the curtains and took the stairs down to the hall and then along into the back dining room. I couldn’t be seen at the front door. The curtains were drawn here too, as per the custom and, in this unusual context, to shield the pacing corpse from prying eyes. It also meant I could look down the hall to the front door without being seen myself.

I could picture the driver handing the two black-clad women to the front door under the protection of his umbrella. He’d then have to help Stewart carry Wullie McAllister and his wheelchair to the open door: two trips. The door opened and grey light tumbled down the hall. Sam and my mother stepped in and shook off their hats and veils and their soaking coats. I watched them hang up their clothes, receive Wullie and get him seated on the stairs while he waited for his wheels. Then Sam broke off, holding my mother by the arm and dragging her towards the dining room. She marched in.

‘Douglas?’ she whispered.

I stood forward. ‘I’m here,’ I whispered back, at the same time giving my mother a quick embrace.

‘He doesn’t know. You need to tell him.’

‘I could hide behind the curtains.’

‘Don’t be daft. You need to face this.’

‘Can we trust him?’

‘Do we have a choice? Listen. They’re coming.’

The wheels creaked along the hall.

‘Give him a warning. We don’t want to stop his heart,’ I hissed.

Sam turned and stepped through the door.

‘Wullie? And you, Stewart. Just a minute please. In the van there I was trying to tell you something. But I couldn’t, in case the driver overheard.’

‘Whit is it, hen? Have you run oot of whisky? I’ll send Stewart to the off licence.’

‘No. It’s not that. We have plenty. And you’re going to need a big glass. It’s about Douglas.’

‘Oh aye. You’ll be telling me he’s no’ deid?’

‘How…?’

‘I knew it. Are you there, Brodie?’

I stepped forward into the light and shook their hands. Both were grinning like fools. So was I.

‘How did you guess?’

‘Suicide? Douglas Brodie? And I’m the Emperor of China.’

Behind him, Stewart, beaming, added, ‘He tried to put a bet on with me. I wouldn’t take it.’

My mother slid out from behind me. ‘Are you two saying you didnae believe Samantha and me? I’m fair hurt.’

‘Naw, you were great, Agnes.’ He stroked his thin moustache. ‘Maybe there could have been more tears for your only-begotten son.’

‘Was that all?’ she asked.

‘I’ve been a crime reporter for forty years. I’ve seen every scam. This felt like one. Especially the ambulance bit.’

‘What do you mean?’

He touched his long thin nose. ‘I have contacts in every hospital in Glasgow. I taught Brodie to trawl for stories in the accident wards on a Sunday morning. After I heard the terrible news, I made a few calls to see where they’d taken him. Nobody knew.’

‘God, Wullie, I hope you haven’t blown my cover.’

‘Naw, naw. When I began to suspect, I pulled right back.’

My mother persisted. ‘So why did you insist on coming to the cemetery?’

‘To assist with the verisimilitude, Agnes.’

‘You old devil. You might have said.’

‘Well, I didnae want to upset the pair of you if I’d got it wrang. But listen, this is a gie dry wake. I was promised a dram.’

Tea was made, sandwiches produced and whisky drunk. Just like a proper funeral, apart from the increasingly cheerful corpse in their midst.

We sat round the dining table in the gloom and I heard how it went from my mother.

‘I was saying to Samantha, it was just terrible. I kent fine it wisnae you going into the ground but it felt like it. As for that minister…’

‘He was a miserable git.’

‘Wullie!’ said Sam.

‘Sorry, hen. That’s the only way to describe him. He couldnae get oot o’ there fast enough.’

I shrugged. ‘You cannae blame him, I suppose, given my reputation.’

My mother was unforgiving. ‘But where was his Christian charity? I should have pressed harder on my own minister to come and do it.’

‘But let’s not forget, Mum, it wasn’t actually real.’

‘It felt gie like it. As for mourners – apart from this pair – nary a one. Shameful it was.’

I touched her arm. ‘Mum, it’s what I wanted, what we agreed. It would have been too embarrassing to have had loads of folk greetin’ and bawlin’ while all the time I was ensconced in Sam’s house with a big whisky in my hand.’

‘Loads? Well, maybe wan or twa, eh, Brodie?’ Wullie’s eyes twinkled.

My mother gave him a look. ‘Aye, well, I hope when the time comes for real, you get a better send-off.’

‘It’s not something that will worry me, Mum, come the day. But I suspect the eventual number of mourners will depend on whether or not I can clear up this mess. Which reminds me, Wullie, I need your help. I’m stuck in Shimon’s store but I need some eyes and ears out on the street.’

‘In my pomp, I’d have been glad to help, Brodie, but as you can see…’ He tapped his wheels.

‘Can I help, Brodie?’ asked Stewart.

‘It’s good of you to offer, but I need someone with a particular set of low-life talents. I want Wullie to contact one of my old snitches, Weasel Watkins. I want you to run him, Wullie. He’ll report to you and you to me.’

‘Weasel?’ said Sam. ‘He sounds dependable. Are you sure, Douglas?’

‘Oh, you can count on Weasel. He’s a snitch whose chief talent is hanging about, watching and clyping. He’s a natural
spy. Weasel doesn’t have enough imagination to get easily bored. He’s a wind-up toy: point him, set him loose and he’ll keep doing what was asked until his spring runs down. His “spring” being alcohol. It makes for dedication but uncertain results. His other talent is that he’s invisible. No one notices Weasel. Which makes him perfect for the job.’

‘Which is?’ asked Wullie.

‘I want Weasel to watch Lady Gibson and report to you each day.’

‘What are you looking for?’

‘I’m not sure, Wullie. All I know is that she dropped me in this mess either willingly or unwillingly. I want to know where she goes, who she sees, who visits her, anything at all. At some stage I need to confront her, but I’d like to be as prepared as possible.’

‘I could talk to her,’ said Sam. ‘She doesn’t know who I am. She’s been pointed out to me at the odd function in the past but we’ve never met. She won’t connect me with you.’

‘She may not know your face, Sam, but she’ll know who you are. Let’s see what Weasel comes up with. You all right with that, Wullie?’

‘Aye, sure. Ah’m used to hobnobbing wi’ low life.’

‘I also want to find out more about Fraser Gibson. I don’t think he was murdered for the ransom money. Or not just for it. It doesn’t make sense. The Government is terrified his bank was pilfering American aid. I want to know everything about Gibson. Who his pals were, where he hung out, what he got up to, what his background was, etc.’

‘Ah can make some calls, Brodie. And maybe get the lovely Elspeth on the case.’

‘Who’s she?’ Mum asked.

‘Elspeth MacPherson. A bonny lass with a huge brain,’ Wullie replied. ‘Our literary critic and chief researcher at the
Gazette
. Has a first in Classics from Edinburgh. Knows the Encyclopaedia Britannica off by heart. Possibly wrote it.’

‘Great idea, Wullie. See what you can get in a hurry. Can we meet tomorrow with your first findings? I’ll tell you where and when.’

‘Aye, sure.’

‘That’s another thing. I need to move. I’m putting Shimon at too much risk. He’s having to keep his staff out of the back store and it’s only a matter of time before someone finds me skulking there.’

‘You could skulk here in the scullery?’

‘I’d love to, Sam.’ And sneak up to your bed every night, was my unspoken wish. ‘But that’s even riskier. It would be catastrophic for your career if you were found harbouring an alleged murderer and had helped engineer his escape. God knows what crimes we committed this afternoon.’

‘Well, let’s hope it is only God who knows. OK, where are you going to move to? Where’s safe?’

I smiled. ‘I made a phone call. It’s all fixed. You’ll be amused.’

When I told her, she was. Sort of.