by Ian Todd
“And?”
“And, efter bundling him intae the boot ae the car, they fucked aff wae him, so they did.”
“Where?”
“Oot West. They shot him twice in the heid and wance in the back, so they did.”
“So, how the hell did the bizzies manage tae get their hauns oan him then?”
“A…a wee dug. Some guy wis oot walking wae it and it started digging in the undergrowth…under a tree.”
“Under a tree?”
“There wis a hole…they stuffed the body in there and covered it o’er wae boulders and stuff.”
“Stuff?”
“Leaves…sticks and that.”
“So, where wis this, Donald?”
“Somewhere jist ootside, Alexandria…this side ae Dumbarton.”
Silence.
“Whit aboot Willie Commotion?”
“Naw.”
“Naw whit?”
“Ah never picked up whit happened tae him.”
“So, back tae John The Haun.”
“The guy wae the dug? He wis an aff duty bizzy, so he wis.”
“Ye’re fucking joking! See? There’s always hope, no matter the situation ye kin find yersel in,” Simon reminded him, taking a wee cautious sip ae the hot liquid.
“Wh…when he went tae investigate, the wee dug uncovered a haun…a bloodied wan, sticking up oot ae the leaves...and that.”
“An aff duty cop came across a shitehoose like John The Haun’s haun, sticking up oot ae the ground? There’s nae justice in the world, so there’s no,” Tony sighed, shaking his heid.
“Aye, seemingly a couple ae the fingers oan it wur…wur twisted and broken as well, so they wur,” Donald shivered, as Tony and Simon, baith burst oot laughing. “Apparently they’d tortured him before plugging him.”
“He’s fucking at it, so he is,” Simon snorted tae Tony.
“Ah…Ah heard it oan good authority,” Donald pleaded, that nervousness ae his rising dramatically.
“Ah thought you jist said ye wurnae sure if this wis kosher?”
Silence.
“Okay, and then whit, Donald?” Tony finally asked him efter gieing the disclosure a wee bit ae thought, warning Simon wae his eyes tae stoap noising him up and leaning o’er tae top up Donald’s cup.
“They…they took him tae Alexandra Royal, bit then transferred him the same day…under armed escort.”
“Where?”
“Ah’m no sure. It…it wis they skulky chookter basturts, fae the Highlands...the wans that lifted Wan-bob and Charlie. Armed tae the teeth, so they wur.”
“The Highlands? Is that where they’ve goat him stuffed away then?” Tony continued.
“Ah…Ah don’t know…Ah’m no sure.”
“Aw, trust you, Donald, ya useless basturt, ye,” Simon spat at him, as Blackbeard cringed back in his seat, looking as if he wis jist aboot tae shite himsel.
“Simon, shut the fuck up. Carry oan, Donald, ye’re daeing fine,” Tony cooed encouragingly.
“Look, Ah…Ah don’t know if this is gen or no, bit Ah heard that they hid him holed up in that sergeant’s pad…the…the wan that goat plugged up in the Bar-L.”
“Who, Priestly? The Gruesome Twosome sergeant?”
“Er, aye.”
Silence.
“So, where dis…did he live then?”
“F…furget it. There’s nowan there. Ah’ve been watching…sitting in ma shag-mobile, getting blowjobs aff ae Candy Strachan, the past two weeks as cover. Ma baws ur that deflated Ah kin hardly staun up oan ma ain two feet. Nowan’s coming or gaun, so they urnae. If there wis anywan in that flat, Ah’d know.”
“So, where did that wan come fae then?”
“The contact…”
“Contact?”
“Ma…ma contact…the wan that telt me.”
Silence.
“So, ye’re saying he’s still in the toon then? That disnae make sense, Donald. He’s bound tae be somewhere up in the Highlands, surely?” Tony wondered.
“Ma…ma, contact? Reliable as fuck…usually,” Donald claimed, an apologetic grimace cracking open that face ae his.
“Whit dae ye think, Simon?”
“Ah’m no sure.”
“And ye’re convinced there’s nowan in that flat ae his?”
“Er, aye.”
“Okay, Donald, so who’s yer contact then?” Tony asked him pleasantly.
“Eh?” Donald yelped in horror.
“Ye heard me.”
“Bit…”
“Look, we’re no gonnae make an approach. Aw we need tae know is how reliable he is.”
“Oh, bit Ah kin assure ye…”
“Donald, shut the fuck up and tell us who it is,” Simon warned him, the teapot stoapping mid-flight, waiting for a response.
“Bit, Peter never asked me tae disclose ma…”
“Donald, shut yer arse. Tell us who he is. Ah’ve jist said, we won’t go anywhere near him. We jist need tae know that whit he’s telt ye kin staun up tae a challenge,” Tony reassured him, as Simon carried oan topping up the cups.
Silence.
“It…it’s Happy Harry,” Donald mumbled miserably, looking aboot at the other customers.
“That fat basturt! The longest serving desk sergeant in the west? Ah thought that prick hid retired long ago?” Simon growled, inadvertently reaching up and fingering the invisible bruises oan his neck, remembering the day The Stalker hid jumped him up at Springburn Polis Station, the time they paid the desk sergeant tae blag The Stalker’s service notebook.
“He his, bit he, er, still keeps his haun in, so he dis.”
“And how much is this costing us?” Simon wanted tae know, loudly stirring his tea, the jangling sound ae the teaspoon twanging aff the inside ae the cup, as Donald jumped every time the spoon went full circle.
“Er, t…two…and a hauf.”
“Two hunner and fifty quid?”
“Er, aye…Ah…tried tae haggle, bit he widnae budge.”
“Ah think you need watching, Donald, dae ye know that? That’s some fucking iffy company you keep, so it is.”
“Bit…”
“Anyway, Donald, back tae Priestly. He widnae hiv hid somewhere else in the toon, like a flat or somewhere he rented oot, wid he?”
“If anywan knew, it wid be Happy Harry. Ah did ask him that, bit he said he’d never picked anything like that up. S…sorry.”
“Ye’ve done well, Donald. We’ll get ye the two fifty fur Happy Harry by the end ae the day. In the meantime, here’s the other five hunner we promised ye,” Tony said, taking the envelope oot ae his inside pocket and haunin it across.
“Oh, er, thanks, Tony. Ah’m s…sorry Ah couldnae hiv been mair helpful,” Donald replied, his tongue snaking alang they dry, cracked lips ae his, as his haun gied the envelope a wee squeeze before it disappeared intae the pocket ae that Long John Silver coat ae his.
Chapter Thirty Nine
Wilma lifted doon the wee broon bottle ae Mogadon and looked at the label. ‘Take two an hour before bed,’ she mouthed wordlessly, glancing up and looking at her tired reflection in the medicine cabinet mirror. She shook the bottle, her shattered nerves jumping at the sound ae the rattle.
“Watch how you use these, Mrs Thain. They can be quite dangerous in the wrong hands…although, as a policewoman, I’m sure you already know that. Keep to the prescribed dose on the label. Good day,” Doctor Leckie hid said cheerfully, as she wis ushered towards the door, oot intae the busy waiting room, feeling like a zombie.
That hid been three days earlier. She’d spent the last three hours tossing and turning in her bed since swallowing the last two. The shit hid hit the fan, big-style, since Pearl Campbell’s latest screaming heidline. Jean hid predicted that bad news always came in threes, as they’d joined in wae the rest ae the murder squad in passing the different pages fae The Glesga Echo aroond the office.
“Fucking hell!”
“Listen tae this…”
“
Who is she talking aboot?”
“That’s Willie Burke’s sister, whit’s her name…”
“Sally?”
“Aye, her. It’s goat tae be.”
She hidnae hid long tae wait fur the phone call, efter every polisman and wummin in the toon hid the chance tae read the article highlighting the number ae times management hid obstructed an investigation intae the sexual assault and sexual harassment allegations by Pricilla Presley and the other ex-poliswummin, starting wae Susan McFarlane’s assault in the lavvy ae the polis social club across in the Gorbals back in seventy-two. Although the journalist hidnae identified Teddy Bare by name, anywan associated wae the investigation knew fine well it wis his case she wis referring tae, when she claimed that a sergeant, noo a polis inspector, hid been instructed tae end a murder investigation early, jist before evidence linking the murder ae a female tae statements made by the ex-poliswummin hid come tae light. Pearl hid also speculated as tae whit hid become ae that evidence. The article wis aw insinuation, of course, bit it hidnae stoapped the ceiling fae crashing doon oan everywan’s heids in Central, being helped alang by Barbara Allen, who’d been daeing the roonds ae the newspaper offices and TV studios, screaming fur scalps. She’d sat nervously waiting, dreading the phone call. When it hid come, it hidnae been fae who she’d been expecting. She’d assumed that it wid be fae John Henderson, her ex-boss in the south’s murder squad. Aw the wee lassie oan the other end ae the line hid telt her wis that she wis tae report tae the front desk doon in Central at ten thirty sharp. Naw, she didnae know who she wis tae meet, bit somewan wid take her up the stairs when she arrived. Up the stairs meant the bosses. The desk sergeant hidnae messed aboot either. She’d been sent straight up tae Chief Inspector Sean Smith’s auld office oan the second flair. The same office that he’d quietly locked fae the inside, before blowing his brains oot behind his desk, back in 1969 efter The Glesga Echo hid sensationally uncovered his role in widespread corruption in the force and amongst Corporation officials and cooncillors.
“Ah, Wilma, please take a seat,” Cleopatra hid purred, nodding tae the solitary chair in front ae her desk.
Beside her, Swein McTavish, the ruddy-cheeked, soft-spoken chookter inspector, the man in charge ae The Skulks, hid gied her a wee friendly nod, before sitting back impassively, no speaking throughout the exchange between her and his boss. She remembered sitting there, thinking that he looked like a wee friendly, garden gnome. Since October ae the previous year, efter they’d popped up oot ae nowhere and arrested Wan-bob Broon and his right-haun man, alang wae The Stalker and The Gruesome Twosome, everywan in the force, whether they wur guilty ae anything or no, wur terrified ae him. Him and they skulks ae his wur popping up oot ae the blue, arresting and suspending anywan they believed tae be oan the make in the toon. Harry Tinto, the chief inspector fae The Flying squad, hid been the biggest fish so far, efter being caught trying tae haun o’er a load ae hash fae the boot ae his unmarked car tae Victor Ruth, Papa McGregor’s right-haun man.
“I take it that you’ll have read Pearl Campbell’s sensationalist article in this morning’s Glasgow Echo?” she’d asked, no beating aboot the bush, as Wilma’s stomach churned.
“Aye, Ma’am.”
“Apart from the meeting we know you already had with Miss Campbell in the King’s Café in Elmbank Street at the tail end of last year, have you and her been in touch since?” she’d asked sweetly, they snake eyes ae her burrowing deep intae Wilma’s brain.
“Er, no, Ma’am.”
“No correspondence or telephone calls perhaps?”
“No, Ma’am.”
“I see,” she’d said thoughtfully, clearly weighing up whether she wis being slung a dinger or no.
Silence.
“Have you discussed your investigation into the death of Lesley Bare at the hands of her husband, Teddy Bare, with anyone outwith the force since you wrapped it up?”
Silence.
Oh ma God! Wilma’s brain hid screamed in panic, as she fought no tae dissolve intae meltdoon. Did they know she’d met up wae Pearl Campbell in that shitty wee American Diner doon in the toon centre recently? Hid she been tailed by The Skulks up tae Pearl’s ma’s hoose oan Keppochhill Road tae check oot her bedroom wall? Why the hell hid she no jist listened tae John Henderson and her partner, Jean, insteid ae getting in tow wae that wee, mad minx?
“Er, aye, Ma’am.”
“I see. Would you mind explaining in what circumstances that would have occurred?” Cleopatra hid asked genially, as McTavish shifted ever so slightly in his seat and Cleopatra’s pupils swiftly disappeared behind her slitted eyelids.
“Ah received a call fae Lanarkshire Hoose, fae Glenda Metcalfe’s secretary, informing me that the wee procurator fiscal wanted a word. Ah wis requested tae bring any ootstaunin files or notes related tae the Teddy Bare case that wisnae awready in the concluded investigation file.”
“I see. And you reported this to your boss, I assume?”
“Ah did eventually, bit no that day.”
“Why?”
“Because the secretary said that Miss Metcalfe needed tae speak tae me right away, as she wis working tae a tight deidline.”
“So, when did you report back?”
“The following morning when Ah came intae the office. I noted doon in the chief inspector’s briefing book, where Ah’d been and at whit time, alang wae other follow-up leads that me and ma detective sergeant hid been pursuing, oot and aboot that day… including a possible witness in the Honest John McCaffrey murder investigation that Ah’m responsible fur…as per procedure,” she’d reminded them.
“What was Metcalfe after?”
“She informed me that she’d been charged wae reviewing Teddy Bare’s original, reduced, culpable homicide charge. She…she challenged me tae explain why Ah’d come tae the conclusion that Ah hid…”
“Conclusion?”
“Aboot no pressing fur a murder charge. She wis aware ae the statements that Pricilla Presley and the other wummin hid provided WPC McFarlane wae, back in seventy two, efter she’d accused Sergeant William Burke ae raping her in the toilet across in the polis social club in the Gorbals. She wanted tae know why Ah’d concluded the case early, given the obvious link between Pricilla Presley’s typed statement found at the scene ae Lesley Bare’s mur…death, and the statements by the other ex-poliswummin.”
“And what did you tell her?”
“Ah telt her the truth.”
“Which was?”
“That ma auld chief inspector, John Henderson, brought me and Jean in and informed us that we hid tae conclude the investigation early, as we wur needed elsewhere…across in the north, due tae experienced manpower shortages in the Black Butcher murder enquiries.”
“Did you inform her that I was present at the meeting between you and your DS and Chief Inspector Henderson?”
“Aye, Ma’am.”
The meeting hidnae lasted long efter that. She’d telt them that Glenda Metcalfe hidnae asked tae see the notes she’d brought wae her and aye, she awready knew the conclusion ae the wee procurator fiscal’s review ae Teddy Bare’s original charge, hid been upgraded tae murder.
Oan the Honest John McCaffrey case itsel, a note hid been left fur her tae say that wan ae the local pavement pounders, PC Ben Kiddie, hid wanted tae speak tae her. Seemingly, he hid a cast iron witness who’d identified Peter Paterson haunin o’er the motorbike used in the assassination ae Honest John McCaffrey, tae Midnight Bob and his pal oan the spare ground an hour or so efter the murder. Her and Jean hidnae goat the message until later, as they’d been up at the Forth and Clyde Canal, near Panmure Street in Possil, efter it hid been reported that a wee ten year auld boy hid droont. Despite it being an obvious tragic accident, they’d still hid tae rule oot foul play due tae the suddenness ae the death. It hid only been efter they’d turned up at PC Kiddie’s flat in Colston at seven o’clock that same night, that they’d found oot that the wean who’d been droont earlier hid been the same
wan that hid identified Paterson. Despite the stress ae the meeting wae Cleopatra and that chief skulk ae hers and the frustration ae another witness in the murder ae Honest John McCaffrey case becoming irrelevant efter Peter Paterson’s murder, nothing hid prepared her fur the sledgehammer blow that hid landed oan her heid three days earlier when she’d walked through her front door.
“Whit the hell ur you daeing here at this time ae the night?” she’d demanded tae know fae her ma, confused. “Where’s the weans?”
“In bed, fast asleep, hen,” she’d said, in her maist funeral parlour tone ae voice.
“Oh, bit…where’s Ronnie?”
“Him? That basturt?” her ma hid suddenly scowled, the funeral parlour tone hivving jist been a passing mirage, as she let loose. “He’s aff, so he is.”
“Aff? Aff where?”
“Back tae that young floozy ae his.”
“Eh?” she’d shrieked, her heart sinking, as she’d grabbed a haud ae the back ae the couch tae stoap her legs fae collapsing under her.
“Aye and it gets worse tae, so it dis,” she’d growled, looking as if she wis starting tae enjoy hersel, despite hivving missed Coronation Street.
“W…worse…how kin it get any worse?” she’d demanded tae know, bewildered, her life crashing doon aboot her heid. “The weans!”
“Look, Ah’ve jist said, Wilma, they’re in their beds sleeping. Ah tried tae warn ye aboot that sleekit, ugly forked-tongued basturt, bit ye widnae listen tae me, and me yer ma tae.”
“Look, Ma, ye…ye wur aboot tae say…something aboot it being worse,” she’d stammered, the tears blinding her, as she sat doon oan the erm ae the couch, her legs continuing tae wobble.
“Wee Morag left her rag doll…the wan that Ah knitted fur her…back at mine. It wis the wan Ah’d knitted efter youse came hame fae the hospital. Remember? Anyway, Ah nipped roond here aboot seven o’clock wae it. Ah wisnae sure if the weans wid be in their bed, so Ah jist let masel in wae the key, so as no tae waken them by rattling the letterbox. The sight Ah wis confronted wae? Well, Ah don’t think Ah’ll ever get o’er it fur as long as Ah live, so Ah won’t…and me a widowed pensioner tae.”