‘Well keep going, chief, keep going. Go on, you’ve got another five seconds. Say something outrageous.’ The host of this primetime current affairs show was goading these kids. Encouraging them.
‘You dirty bastard!’ said one seated at the front. The others behind him laughed. The host did too but he was losing control.
‘Go on, again.’
‘You dirty fucker!’
‘What a clever boy.’
‘What a fucking rotter.’
‘Well, that’s it for tonight. The other rocker, Eamonn – and I’m saying nothing else about him – will be back tomorrow. I’ll be seeing you soon, I hope I’m not seeing you again. From me though, goodnight.’
The closing music and credits ran. Chib and Jimmy were stunned. The boys were exhilarated. As if they had just glimpsed a future they never knew could be theirs.
‘Fucken hell,’ said a breathless Sledge. ‘Ye see that there! That’s was fucken outstandin’, man.’ There was a glint in Sledge’s eye. Chib knew what he was thinking. It was as if the youngster had twigged the grand plan. With Wullie’s instructions for the second show still fresh, Chib could use The High Five singer’s mischievous demeanour to their collective advantage.
‘Stay here,’ said Chib. ‘Ah need tae make a quick phone call an’ then ah’ll be back. We need tae talk.’
The large double doors opened, throwing sharp and sudden light into the dark interior.
‘Mr Hillcock to see you, sir.’
‘That’s fine, Albert. Leave us.’ Vince Hillcock walked into the most private space in Heady’s life. A space that no one beyond Albert was ever granted entry to. But this was an emergency. The doors closed. Heady waited until Albert would have reached a different floor.
‘What the utter fuck is happening here, Vince?’ shouted Heady.
Vince was disorientated. He’d known and represented Heady Hendricks for more than a decade yet knew nothing of Heady’s true love: Hornby railways. He looked at his client, standing in the middle of the largest and most elaborate model railway set he could’ve imagined. It filled the entire room; a room capable of hosting a small wedding. Heady was wearing what looked like a conductor’s uniform, complete with hat and whistle. Vince edged forwards, marvelling at the incredible detail assembled in front of him. As he did, he saw that Heady was wearing nothing below the waist. A big, dangling cock hung down below his shirt front. The only light was provided by minute spots located on the black ceiling, which resembled a blanket of stars shining down on the night-time papier-mâché countryside. Vince was grateful for its small mercies.
‘We’ve got it under control, Heady,’ said Vince.
‘With all due respect, no, you fucking don’t!’ Heady was livid. He was still highly suspicious of Vince. The dynamic of their relationship had shifted since that night in Mayfair. ‘These Glaswegian motherfuckers are running rings around you. Do you know I had one of ’em at the door, hassling Albert? Making demands.’
‘We’re dealing with it, calm down.’
‘You cheeky little cunt!’
Heady was on the verge of spontaneous combustion. He lifted an engine and threw it across the room. It was still harnessed to three carriages. Heady’s incandescent rage was being fanned by the fear that The Circle had instructed Vince to sanction him. All that whispering at the recent meetings. It was happening more often, but Vince was evasive when Heady probed him about his suspicious side chats with The Surgeon.
‘I brought you into this group. I put all that money and influence and power in your fucking pockets, you ungrateful little shit!’
‘I’m not ungrateful. I’m very grateful … but you need to remain calm. This is a betting scam, nothing more. It’s about money for them – and not even yours. They only wanted exposure on television. They wanted you to fix a shock win one week, and then a major loss the next. Think about it, Heady. Do what they ask, an’ we’ll get the files back, I’m sure of it. If there’s one thing I know about, its people. Especially desperate ones. I’ve got this.’
Heady bent down, pulling his underpants up in the process. He crawled out from under the painted plywood world. He took Vince’s arm and they left the room.
Back in the bright daylight of the upper sitting room, Heady apologised for his tantrum.
‘No need, man,’ Vince assured him. ‘I understand the stress all this is putting you under.’
‘That fat Scotch bastard an’ his necrophilia fantasies. It’s a fucking step too far, Vince, it really is. I told everybody it had to stop. I’m all for free expression, you know I am, but we have to have some boundaries.’
‘I know. I’ve had a word with him. It won’t happen again.’
‘It can’t happen, again!’ Heady’s hand was shaking. The whisky in his glass was spilling over the rim and onto a white sheepskin rug. He didn’t seem to be aware of it. ‘What he must fucking realise is that it’s my name on that bastard building, not his!’
‘Heady, we’re following these kids everywhere. We’ve got one of them held until this is all over. And I’ve got the papers running the cover story that Archie Blunt kidnapped him. We know where they all live. If the material doesn’t come back to us after this weekend, there’s nowhere for them to hide that we won’t find. You know this.’
Heady was finally calmed by Vince’s reassurances.
‘And if it did come close to you, Heady, well we’ve got the Daryl.’
Heady knew it would be an admission of defeat if they got to that point, but since keeping his good public name intact – and keeping him out of jail in the process – had always been Vince’s brief, Heady knew that invoking it was always a possibility.
33
December 1976 – Friday
‘Braithwaite, Sherman … there’s a disturbance down at the Great Eastern. Some woman shoutin’ the odds. Sounds like a bloody domestic again. Get down there, sort it out.’
The desk sergeant had spoken. It was pointless to argue. Don Braithwaite was annoyed. Being partnered with Sherman meant his own career was stalling. He was beginning to understand how Barbara felt, and he didn’t like it one bit.
‘Aye, Sarge … right. Come on you!’
Barbara Sherman was pouring over the missing persons boxes again. Her colleagues indulged this madness. The novelty of the practical jokes had worn off, so they now had a different game. If shagging the more attractive WPCs was the subject of one type of sweepstake, making Sherman cry was another. But the chart of named competitors had been up on the wall for over six months. The prize fund was now a whopping fifty quid. Almost all had given up. Barbara Sherman was made of fucking stone, it seemed. Except that she wasn’t. She regularly cried off duty for the multitude of forgotten people the files contained. She had compassion, and for more than just poor Lachie Wylie and his broken mother. She couldn’t erase the memory of seeing his black gravestone on that cold, wet walk with Esther. And of knowing that his brutal father was buried close by in the tiny island cemetery. Family pride and Catholic guilt finding an uneasy compromise that avoided the one plot, the one stone, but preserved a veneer of normality.
‘You can drive,’ said Don Braithwaite.
‘Really?’ said Barbara.
‘Aye. Fuck it!’ Don’s willingness to ignore protocol for the WPC was the clearest indication of his indignation with his gaffers.
Barbara pulled the big Triumph saloon out of the car pool and down London Road, heading west. Such was her shock at being in the driver’s seat, she had forgotten to turn the headlamps on. Horns peeped until she flicked them on.
The Great Eastern towered into view. It was the type of building that seemed to expand in mass at night, like a compulsive eater. Blocking out the light; solid and impenetrable. Only the rooms around the entrance were lit, the regular inhabitants not yet returned from their daily foraging in the city centre. Friday nights were ripe with profligate punters out after work, drunk and in love with everybody. The downward slide into hate and aggression happened
around ten-thirty. You could set your watch by it. Those lucky enough to have somewhere to be, like the Great Eastern, would be off the streets by then. The others, the unlucky ones – the prostitutes, the destitute – just had to ride their luck.
She pulled up outside the monolith. A commotion was still going on just inside the main doors. Don Braithwaite stayed seated, in an apparent huff.
‘Well, ye wanted more responsibility. On ye go then. I’ll be right here, behind ye.’
Barbara got out, feeling unusually empowered to be walking anywhere in uniform alone. She pushed at the open doors. Those involved in the scene inside froze. A mix of the uniform, the surprise of it being a woman inside it, and the disconcerting realisation of her apparently being on her own.
Barbara recognised one of them. The female.
‘Fuck good ae you, hen?’ asked the man behind the desk.
‘My colleague is outside,’ she responded, defensively. She hadn’t taken her eyes off the young woman, who didn’t return her gaze. She continued to stare down at her shoes.
‘What’s going on here?’ Barbara cursed herself for using the ultimate police cliché. From Dock Green to Z-Cars, the opening words of every fictional copper.
‘This fucken lassie is causin’ aggro. Told her tae fuck off three times, an’ she’ll no’ dae it,’ said the man.
A younger, smaller man stood over the tiny woman. Barbara struggled to see the need for police intervention.
‘Miss?’ she asked. ‘Is everything OK?’
This question took the three by surprise. It seemed to imply that the men were the aggressors, and that she might have been at risk from them.
‘Fuck d’ye mean by that, hen?’ The older man moved towards Barbara, the object of his anger shifting focus.
‘Back away, sir,’ said Barbara. ‘I’m just trying to establish that everyone is fine, and that there will be no more trouble.’
‘I’m fine, honestly,’ said the woman. ‘I’m a journalist – Gail Proctor. I’m researching a story.’
‘Fucken hasslin’ us, more like,’ said the man. He glanced outside, waiting for the male to join them and put an end to this sensitivity bollocks.
‘I broke a window, I’m sorry,’ said the woman. ‘I apologise. I’ll pay for it.’
‘Fucken right, ye will,’ said the man.
‘Did you approach these men and ask permission first?’ asked Barbara.
‘No, I didn’t. The story … the thread makes that difficult. You know how it is?’
‘Well, not really,’ said Barbara. ‘This is a potential breach of the peace.’
‘I appreciate that, officer. I’m sorry.’ Gail reached into her bag. She opened her purse and counted out thirty pounds. She handed it to the older man.
‘Aye, well … dinnae fucken come back an’ we’ll say nae more about the windae, right?’
‘Yes, right.’ Gail grabbed her bag and coat and limped outside.
Barbara Sherman followed her.
‘What’s the crack?’ Don Braithwaite was leaning against the car, smoking.
‘Nothing. I’ve got this.’ Barbara walked down the pavement with the young journalist. ‘I remember you from the incident with the old woman’s cat. Is this connected, Gail?’
Gail didn’t answer.
‘Did they do that to you?’ asked Barbara, pointing downward.
‘My ankle? No. That was a car accident. I got run off the road a few months ago.’
‘Did you report it?’
‘Yeah. But nobody followed it up. A witness said he’d not seen the other car,’ said Gail. ‘Guess I’m not important enough.’
‘Who do you work for?’
‘Nobody. I’m freelance.’
‘And what’s the story you’re working on?’
‘Is that an official police enquiry?’
‘Well, it will be if you break the law again.’
Gail Proctor sized Barbara up. She didn’t trust the police. Knew senior-level officers were deeply involved in the sinister activities she was investigating. Knew that a loose word to the wrong junior officer would have dire consequences. This one seemed different though. But she’d have no power, no leverage. She’d get stamped on with a state-supported, steel-toe-capped Doc Marten boot just as quickly as a young female journalist. Then again, Gail had reached a pivotal point. After the cat’s killing, there could be no turning back. She had to make it all stop somehow. Maybe it was time to trust someone. Maybe it was worth the risk. Maybe.
34
December 1976 – Saturday
‘What will you have?’ Gail felt she should at least offer.
‘A tea, please,’ said Barbara, before adding, ‘…and a doughnut.’ They looked so tempting. Sugar-coated, shouting at her. Diets were for Playboy models, not plump policewomen.
Gail came back. With the teas, nothing more. The broken window had cost her all the notes in her purse. She only had enough change for the drinks but wasn’t going to admit that to Barbara.
Barbara was disappointed, but decided not to say anything. She examined Gail. The best way to describe her was elfin, Barbara thought. Not a word used much around the East End of Glasgow. But, nonetheless, if Gail Proctor had been listed in the Oxford English Dictionary, that definition would sit adjacent. She had short black hair. Piercing green eyes that darted about constantly, hunting for something, or wary of something different. It was hard to tell. She was a journalist. Or so she claimed. Barbara asked who she wrote for. No one, she’d said during the previous night’s fractured introductions. Freelance. Barbara wasn’t even sure what that meant in the context of a normal job that provided wages to pay rent. For food. Gail Proctor was pretty but made little of it. No make-up; worn, baggy clothes two sizes too big for her. A flat cap like an extra from the Hovis advert. It was a strange persona for a young woman in a very male city. Glasgow women wore pinnies, hairnets, lipstick applied sparingly to the middle of their lips. It was regularly said that you’d have more fun at a Glasgow funeral than at an Edinburgh wedding. Gail Proctor, from the capital city, highlighted the gulf between west and east.
‘Are you married?’ It was a stupid question. No ring ridges, no suggestion that her life was shared with anyone else.
Gail smirked.
‘I just meant, does anyone know you’re here?’ From bad to worse. Coming across like a veiled threat from an off-duty copper. ‘Look, I’m sorry. I’m a bit nervous,’ said Barbara. ‘I want to help, and I think you want me to. I’m new at this. We don’t get much opportunity to get directly involved.’
‘We?’
‘The female officers. We’re treated like servants. Kept downstairs, if you know what I mean.’
‘Hmm.’
‘Unless you’ve got the big tits and a slim waist, of course. Then you’re allowed upstairs. To sit on the boss’s lap.’
Gail smiled at this. Had they made a connection? Shared frustrations?
People came and went. The cafe was very busy, bustling with customers of all ages. Most heading on to the Barras Market across the street. Traders. Punters. All looking for a deal or a bargain.
‘Did you file the report on Annie?’
Barbara was temporarily lost. ‘Oh, sorry … the cat? Yes, I did.’
‘And?’
‘Well … it’s still on file. Still open.’
‘I’ll bet,’ said Gail, scornfully.
‘Do you know more than you told me?’
Gail didn’t answer. She looked away. Barbara knew now that there was more. A few minutes passed without words between them. Barbara felt it better to wait until Gail was ready.
‘I’m sorry about last night,’ said Gail at last. ‘I really didn’t mean to be so short with you.’
‘It’s fine. But I genuinely do want to help. I thought a lot about some of the things you said.’
‘Such as?’ She was so guarded. Barbara thought that unusual for a journalist. Then again, this was the only one she’d spoken to directly.
‘What did you mean when you called Mr Campbell an abuser?’
‘When did I say that?’
‘Last night. Just before you got into the car.’
Barbara was keen to let Gail know that this wasn’t an official chat, without specifically stating it. ‘Look, you can trust me. Honestly.’
There was a look on Gail’s face. It was as if she was calculating the risk level of every potential word. She had waited such a long time to be in this position. Two years, on and off, logging information, comments, observations. Never knowing how many of them were relevant. How many were taking her away from what she thought the truth was. It was a strange feeling.
‘I think…’ Gail paused and breathed deeply. And then she said nothing more. She lit a cigarette. She blew out the smoke. Side of the mouth. And then leaned back in the seat.
It would’ve been so easy for Barbara to have avoided this meeting. To have used her day off more productively. Only there wasn’t much for a single woman far from home to do in Glasgow. Argyle Street; but the limited joys of shopping for something personal had been sucked out and spat into the gutter by Maude Campbell. There were the walks. Glasgow Green. Kelvingrove. But the nocturnal activities of the pimps and prostitutes, dealers and addicts, made them tough places to enjoy in daylight. Disassociation was difficult.
Barbara leaned forwards. ‘I’ve been in the city for a year. And I hate it. I hate the grey. I hate the soot-stained buildings. I hate the smog that gets everywhere. Your hair, your lungs. I hate the job … that nobody values me as a human being. I hate that no one is interested in my opinion. And I hate that no one I work with trusts me.’ Barbara lifted the teacup to her mouth.
Gail Proctor’s expression hadn’t changed.
Barbara refocused. ‘If you have any information relevant to a crime, then you need to hand it over, Gail.’ It sounded too formal.
Welcome to the Heady Heights Page 21