Chasing Aquila

by James Hume

  ‘Blimey,’ Tom exclaimed. ‘Well done, ma’am.’

  The compartment contained an ID card; a passport; a small black notebook; two plastic bags, with foreign words printed on the outside and full of small white pills; eight small plastic bags, each with a thin red reseal strip, and five of the same pills; and several stashes of five and one pound notes, all neatly bundled in elastic bands. Sandra lifted out the ID card and the passport, both in the name David Wilson. The ID card gave his address as 15, Ardenlea Street, Glasgow, SE, and a date of birth of 11 April, 1916. The passport showed Mr Wilson had entered Holland through Schiphol Airport three times in the last four months, the first on 23rd July. The photograph in the passport was Tommy Thomson.

  She gently lifted out the plastic bags. ‘Wonder what these are?’ she murmured, ‘and how did he get them here? Tom, could you get the suitcase from the bedroom, please?’

  She lifted out the cash and estimated more than three hundred pounds. So, whatever Tommy had been doing, presumably selling these pills, had been very lucrative. She glanced through the notebook – full of names and numbers. She’d need time to study it.

  Tom came back with the case and Sandra examined the inside. She estimated distances with a pencil. ‘I think there’s a false top and bottom in this case – maybe an inch gap in each? Big enough to hold these pills. I’ll bet that’s how he brings them in.’

  She sat down on the arm of a sofa and pondered. ‘Tommy must sell these pills for big money. Yet, he’s dead five days and no one seems interested. Now, it can’t last. I think we need to do two things – check on this David Wilson, and set up a camera here to see who comes to call. Let’s go. Have you got an evidence bag? We’ll take this lot into safe custody.’

  He pulled out a large paper bag from his inside pocket. ‘Got one here, ma’am.’

  ‘Right, let’s get this lot into the car. We’ll take the suitcase too.’

  They closed the bureau, locked the flat, and put the bag and case in the car boot.

  ‘Can you find out where Ardenlea Street is, Tom, while I make a call?’

  The phone connected. ‘Roberts.’

  ‘Alex, it’s Sandra Maxwell here. Remember the cat camera you set up in Shawlands last year? Do you still have it? I’d like to use it in a house in Dalmarnock Road.’

  ‘Well, it’s on a table next to me here, but I’d need to check if the Selenium cell still works and put a new battery and film into it. When do you need it?’

  ‘Now, if possible.’

  ‘Right, I’ll check it out, and if it’s okay, I’ll drop it off on my way home. Be about forty-five minutes. What’s the number?’

  ‘811. One up left. Name of Thomson.’

  ‘Okay. See you then, Sandra.’

  She got out of the car. ‘Have you found Ardenlea Street?’ she asked Tom.

  ‘Yes, ma’am. Just along Birkwood Street, two streets over.’

  ‘Okay, let’s keep a low profile and walk over.’ She told the driver that if Doc Roberts appeared before they came back, ask him to wait.

  ***

  They rang the doorbell and waited. Sandra could hear shuffling and bumping behind the door and glanced at Tom. After a few minutes the door opened and a man peered at them through his glasses. He leaned on a crutch. ‘Mr Wilson?’

  The man nodded.

  They introduced themselves, and asked if they could come in. The man struggled behind the door and they then realised he had two crutches, and a plaster cast on his right foot.

  ‘What you here for?’ he asked, abruptly.

  ‘We’re sorry to bother you, but we’re following up on the death of Tommy Thomson, and wondered if you could tell us about him.’

  Mr Wilson’s head dropped onto his chest. ‘I can’t believe it. I can’t get over it. Just the best mate any man could have. Christ, they sure take the good ones first.’

  ‘How well did you know him?’

  ‘I feel I’ve known him all my life, but it’s only since he came to live here just before the war. He kept me right. I don’t read or write very well. Tommy got me a wee bank account, and slipped me a few quid now and then. Got me a lawyer to sue the company over this.’ He indicated his foot. ‘I don’t know what I’ll do now. I mean, these letters up there,’ he pointed to the mantelpiece. ‘Christ, what do I do?’ he pleaded.

  ‘Can I have a look?’

  ‘Yeah, go ahead.’

  Sandra stood up and got the letters. ‘There’s two from the Clydesdale Bank and one from an insurance company. Do you want me to open them?’

  He nodded. ‘Aye, if you would.’

  She took a pencil from her bag and slit the three envelopes. ‘The first letter from the bank gives changes to the Terms and Conditions of your account. The second asks you to go and see them to discuss possible investments.’

  He shook his head. ‘I don’t even know what any of that means.’

  ‘Well, why don’t I go in and see them for you, and get them to help you.’

  He nodded. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘And you should pass this other letter from the insurance company to your lawyer. Do you have his name and address?’

  It’s on the table over there. His name’s Wallace.’

  Sandra looked at the few letters lying open on the table and found one from the lawyer. She noted no letters from the bank amongst them. ‘Right, I’ve got it here. Why don’t I go and see him as well for you and sort this out too?’

  He nodded again. ‘Yeah, thanks.’

  Sandra put the letters in her bag. ‘I’ll do it tomorrow. What’s your date of birth?’

  ‘Eleven four sixteen.’

  ‘Okay. When did you last see Tommy?

  ‘Last Thursday, when he brought me back from the hospital. He usually came round two or three times a week.’

  Sandra nodded. ‘One last point.’ She pulled the photo of the fair-haired man from her bag. ‘Have you seen this man at all? Has he been at your door?’

  He looked at the picture and shook his head. ‘No, I’ve never seen him.’

  ‘Okay.’ She wouldn’t get anything else useful here. Tommy had obviously used Wilson’s ID without his knowledge. ‘Well, thank you for your time, Mr Wilson.’ She picked up her bag, and she and Tom left, making sure the door closed behind her.

  Sandra glanced at Tom. ‘What a situation, huh?’

  Tom nodded. ‘Poor bugger. Can hardly move, and can’t read or write. We don’t know when we’re well off.’

  They got back to their car just as Doc Roberts drove up. They shook hands and Sandra led the way up to the flat. Sandra pointed to the chest of drawers in the hall. ‘I thought we might put it on here, looking down the hall to the front door.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Roberts, pulled the ornament out of his bag, and placed it on the unit.

  ‘Blimey,’ Tom said. ‘It just looks like any cat ornament. How does it work then?’

  Roberts smiled. ‘The Selenium cell in this eye is light sensitive. It triggers when the light changes, up or down, and in turn, triggers the Minox camera behind this eye. So, if we close the side doors from the hall, then whoever comes in the front door will put on the hall light and the cat will take his picture. It’s a bit crude, but it works. At least, it did last year. I’ll come in every morning to see if it has triggered and let you know.’

  Tom laughed. ‘Brilliant.’

  ‘Right, if you two leave first, I’ll set the camera and join you outside.’

  On the way into the office, Sandra and Tom discussed the three tasks agreed earlier. Tom said, ‘I’ll get the night shift started on the first two to give us a head start.’

  Sandra nodded. She just wanted to get to her desk and think through the events of the day. And she needed to call Porritt back as well.

  A note on her desk said CS McGowan had called her. Would she call him back, please? Let’s get this out of the way first, she thought, and picked up the phone.

  ‘Alan, sorry I missed your call.’

&nbs
p; ‘Just to give you an update, Sandra.’

  ‘Great. What have you got?’

  ‘Right, George Slavin, the lawyer, is kosher. He got approached by a Mr John Coyle, Sergeant Brown’s father, to see if he could get Brown transferred to Northern Ireland. You might remember Sergeant Brown had a false ID. His real name’s Charles Coyle.’

  ‘I do remember.’

  ‘So, John Coyle introduced Aidan Connor to Slavin as a relative. We asked John Coyle about Connor, and he admitted Connor’s not a relative. He’d approached Coyle out of the blue, wanted to talk to Sergeant Brown, and offered Coyle a lot of money – and would pay the lawyer’s fees on top. Coyle went for it.

  ‘If he has to contact Connor for any reason, he writes to him at the address you gave me, which turns out to be a ‘convenience’ address.’

  ‘Oh? What’s that?’

  ‘I think you know over here we have two very separate communities – the Unionists and the Nationalists – protestants and catholics.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Well, most people think the two never meet. But in fact, there are lots of relationships across the divide that need to communicate with each other in a safe and private way. So, way back in the early thirties, a very enterprising man, who owned a small newspaper shop in the city centre, started a sort of club. For a small fee, you could have your secret mail delivered to the shop address. When you went in to buy your paper and ciggies, you gave your name and your four-digit access code, and if you had fully paid, you got your mail as well. I believe he started it to help a mate out and it just mushroomed from there. In fact, our lads saw the postman arrive with a small sack of mail, and he gets that twice a day. The current fee’s a shilling a week, so he has a good sideline there.

  ‘Anyway, the man admitted he had an Aiden Connor as a member, and recognised the picture, but he didn’t come in very often, and the name’s probably false. He reckons most of his members use false names. It doesn’t matter to him.’

  ‘Jesus. Is that legal, Alan?’

  She could sense him shrug at the other end. ‘Don’t think it’s illegal, Sandra. Not unless someone uses the name and address as an official ID. Anyway, bottom line, we don’t know who Connor is. We’ll check out any Aiden Connors we have on the voters’ roll, but I wouldn’t hold out much hope. Sorry, Sandra.’

  ‘Oh, don’t be sorry, Alan. A great piece of work so quickly. Thanks.’

  ‘Right, well, if anything else breaks, I’ll get back to you.’

  ***

  Sandra put the evidence bag in her safe, the suitcase in her cupboard, and locked both. She then sketched out what she’d say to the Commander, and asked for the number.

  ‘Porritt,’ came the familiar voice.

  ‘Good evening, sir. Sorry to call so late, but I thought you’d like to know your suspicions over Thomson’s death were justified.’

  ‘Really? Tell me about it.’

  She took him through her findings of the visitor to Brown in prison who then appeared in Glasgow and befriended Tommy. She outlined her thoughts about what happened, and concluded, ‘We don’t know whether Thomson’s death was deliberate or accidental, but they must have fought because Thomson wouldn’t give Huizen any info on Jane. I think the most Huizen probably got from his visit, was Thomson’s wife could be in a place called something ‘burg’, and maybe has something to do with a trial. Could he work out from that where she is? I don’t know. But on balance, I think he might turn up in your area soon.

  ‘At the moment, I can’t prove what happened. But I’m certain Thomson did not commit suicide or fall in the river by himself while drunk. That conclusion doesn’t even fit the basic evidence, without our wider background. Makes me suspicious of the SIO.

  ‘I‘ll send you over Huizen’s picture and details, sir, if you give me the number, and I’ll let you know tomorrow what else we find.’

  ‘Brilliant, Sandra.’ He gave her the number. ‘Appreciate your quick work.’

  ‘No problem, sir. However, the case has become complicated, because I’ve just found out Tommy Thomson was also a drug dealer, and so he might have been targeted for that. But, for the moment, I’m sticking with Huizen, aka Connor, as the guilty party.’

  She hung up the phone. Enough for one day. It would start all over again in the morning. She headed for home to relax.

  ***

  Her phone rang just as she got into bed.

  ‘Sorry for calling so late, ma’am.’

  ‘Okay, Tom. What have you got?’

  ‘I’ve just had DC Orr on the phone, ma’am. All Eastern Division staff have been pulled off our job. They had a possible murder tonight.’

  ‘Well, that’s understandable.’

  ‘Guess who the victim was, ma’am?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘David Wilson.’

  Sandra sat on the bed, and stared at the wall. Jesus. This could get very messy. She had knowledge about the victim no one else had. She pursed her lips. ‘Shit.’

  ‘That’s what I thought, ma’am.’

  ‘Okay, let’s sit on it for the moment, and see what happens in the morning.’

  ‘Right, ma’am. Good night.’

  Two minutes ago, she couldn’t wait to get to sleep. Now her brain raced. She stood up and put her dressing gown back on. How the hell would she handle this?

  Chapter 3. Cian

  Cian gritted his teeth. A third night in this grotty pub, with its grotty people, grotty barmaid and grotty beer, and he still hadn’t got the information he wanted.

  He’d used all his charm and best Dutch accent, but every time he raised the subject of his wife, Tommy just backed off. The barmaid couldn’t remember – somewhere abroad – something burg. Now, with his last chance, these two numbskulls, Billy and Jackie.

  Tommy had gone for a pee and another chat with the barmaid. He leaned forward and spoke quietly to the two. ‘I thought Tommy had a wife. Does she ever come in here?’

  Billy scoffed. ‘No chance, mate. She’s buggered off and took the kids.’

  He lifted his eyebrows. ‘Jeez, really? Where did she go?’

  ‘Christ knows. Someplace burg. To do wi’ a trial, I think.’

  Jackie cackled. ‘Aye, it’s Pissburg.’

  Billy scowled at him. ‘No, it’s no’ Pittsburgh.’ He paused. ‘Hamburg?’

  Jackie cackled again. ‘Ham an’ egg burg. Do you think we’ll ever see them again?’

  ‘Shut up, I’m thinking.’

  Cian glanced over at Tommy, still deep in conversation, and then leaned towards Billy. ‘Oh, it’s okay, Billy. Forget it.’ He wouldn’t get anything useful from these two dodos.

  Tommy came back to the table with a round of drinks. ‘Come on, Billy. Get the dominoes out. I thought you’d have them ready by now.’

  Jackie screwed up his face. ‘Hey, Tommy. Where did your wife go again?’

  Cian grimaced. Shit, he hadn’t wanted that mentioned.

  Tommy didn’t even look up. ‘Bloody nowhere. Who the hell cares? I don’t. She can rot in hell wherever she is. Come on, let’s get on with the dominoes.’

  Cian played dominoes with them, and laughed at their stupid banter. He planned to have a nightcap with Tommy and get him drunk on whisky to loosen his tongue.

  The bell rang at ten o’clock, and everyone had to leave the pub. He noticed the gas-lamps in the street. ‘Hey, they remind me of the song, you know, Underneath the lantern, By the barrack gate, Darling I remember, the way you used to wait’. Tommy came over and joined in, linking shoulders.

  Then Peggy appeared and told them to shut up and bugger off.

  Cian turned to the others. ‘I’ve got to catch an early train in the morning. Good night, everybody.’ He waved, and crossed the main road to the tram stop. He watched Tommy stagger along the other side of the road and enter his close mouth. Give him a couple of minutes to get up to his flat and then he’d join him for that nightcap.

  A tram came along from the left and stopped
because of a tram already at Dalmarnock terminus. The new tram blocked his view of the pub, and more importantly, blocked their view of him. Another tram came from the right across the bridge and stopped alongside the terminus tram. He’d never have a better chance to cross the road unseen. He hurried up his side of the road as the terminus tram moved onto the crossover. Now completely blocked from view, he nipped across the road and entered the close at 811. He stopped to get his breath and then moved towards the stairs.

  He’d just reached them when he sensed a movement out of the shadows on the right, and suddenly Tommy appeared, grabbed him by the throat, thrust a gun against his neck, and pushed him back against the wall. Tommy’s strong glasses, an inch from his face, seemed more sinister in the flickering gaslight.

  Tommy snarled at him. ‘What the hell do you want, ya creepy bastard?’ Tommy rammed the gun harder into his neck, and pulled his tie upwards, choking him. Cian’s body shivered with fear, and he felt warm fluid running down his legs. ‘Why’re you so bloody interested in where my wife is, eh?’ Tommy thrust the gun into his neck again and pulled the tie tighter. ‘Come on, talk, ya bastard. D’ye think I’m stupid or something?’

  He tried to speak, but could only croak. Then a door banged somewhere upstairs and they heard someone coming down.

  Tommy pulled the tie back harder, pushed him through the close into the back court, and rammed him up against the wall in the darkness with the gun at his neck again. ‘Come on, move!’ Tommy pushed him along the wall to the end of the building, then across ten yards of grass towards the bridge. Cian trembled, afraid of what might happen.

  He got pushed down the grassy slope at the side of the bridge. Shit, Tommy was going to shoot him and dump him in the river. Then they both lost their footing and tumbled down the slope to the river bank under the bridge. Tommy dropped the gun, and the stranglehold on Cian’s tie eased. It was the fraction of a second he needed to grab Tommy’s hair and bang his head against the underside of the bridge, and then bang it again to make sure. Tommy slumped to the ground, his glasses landing nearby.