The Shipbuilder’s Daughter

by Emma Fraser

  ‘Are you Missus Morrison? Alasdair Morrison’s wife?’ The lad had removed his cap and was twisting it nervously between his hands.

  Something in his troubled expression sent a chill up her spine. ‘Yes. But as I said, he’s not at home. Is there something wrong?’

  He shuffled his feet. ‘I came to tell you that the polis have got your man. They’re saying he killed someone.’

  Icy tendrils wrapped themselves around Margaret’s heart, drawing the feeling from her body. She clutched the doorframe for support. ‘Alasdair? My husband? You must be mistaken —’

  ‘There’s no mistake. I was sent to tell you.’ He took a step backwards and turned away. ‘Your man’s been taken to Partick Police Station,’ he called out over his shoulder before hurrying back down the stairs.

  ‘Wait!’ she shouted but it was no use. He’d gone. Closing the door, she leant back against it. This didn’t make any sense! Was it someone’s idea of a sick joke? But Alasdair should have been home by now. Grabbing her coat and scarf, she hurried across the landing to the flat opposite.

  ‘Can you look after Elizabeth and James for me?’ Margaret said when Grace answered. ‘I can’t explain just now – but I have to go out.’

  Grace raised her eyebrows but, to Margaret’s relief, didn’t ask any questions. ‘I’ll come right over. They’ll be fine with me, pet, don’t you worry. Take as long as you like.’

  ‘Thank you. Thank you. They’re both asleep but should either of them wake up, tell them I’ll be back soon.’ A wretched, twisting fear still in the pit of her stomach, she hurried out into the street and flagged down a black cab. During the seemingly interminable drive to the police station, for the first time in years, she prayed. When the taxi pulled up she shoved a few coins at the driver and ran up the front steps.

  ‘I’m Mrs Morrison,’ she told the constable at the front desk. She was out of breath and panting. ‘I’ve been told my husband’s here. His name is Alasdair – Alasdair Morrison.’

  The policeman made a show of looking in the large ledger in front of him, his stubby finger tracing down a list of names. Margaret resisted the urge to reach over and turn the book round so she could look herself.

  ‘Ah, yes,’ he said, just when she was ready to scream with frustration, ‘Alasdair Morrison. Arrested two hours ago.’

  Shock jolted through her. ‘There has to have been some mistake. Check again. It’s Alasdair James Morrison…’

  The policeman lifted his head and stared at her with eyes that looked as if they’d seen it all. ‘Aye. The very man. The sergeant’s with him now.’

  ‘Take me to him.’

  ‘I’m afraid that won’t be possible.’

  ‘I’m his wife. I insist I see him.’

  ‘I don’t care if you’re Queen Mary, Madam, this man is under suspicion of murder. You can make arrangements to see him once he’s transferred to Duke Street.’

  Under suspicion of murder! The lad hadn’t been mistaken. There had to be some explanation and the sooner she saw Alasdair the sooner she would find out what it was.

  Margaret drew herself up to her full height. ‘I’m Dr Morrison – William Bannatyne’s daughter. He is a personal friend of the Procurator Fiscal and unless you wish to find yourself in very deep water I suggest you take me to see my husband.’

  ‘Aye, I’ve heard that one a few times as well. Everyone seems to be friends with someone in high places.’ He sighed. ‘I don’t make the rules, Madam, I just follow orders. But wait here and I’ll get the Duty Sergeant for you.’

  While she waited, Margaret paced the small waiting area, jumping every time a door opened. After what seemed like an eternity the constable finally returned in the wake of an older, stern-looking police sergeant.

  ‘Mrs Morrison,’ the sergeant said looking at her curiously, ‘your husband is in the holding cell but you can see him for a few minutes. Constable Barrows here will escort you.’

  Relief flooded through her. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Don’t thank me.’ The sergeant’s look was cold. ‘I’m not doing it because of your threats, Mrs Morrison, which I don’t take kindly to, but because I hope you can speak some sense into your husband. The sooner he tells us the truth of what happened this evening, the better for him. Would save us all a lot of time and trouble if he does.’

  ‘What is my husband saying? Whatever it is will be the truth. My husband is a lawyer, not a criminal.’

  But the sergeant had already turned away, as if she no longer existed. The constable lifted the lid of the hatch and motioned her through.

  Their footsteps echoed on the grey concrete floor, and the stench of damp and unwashed bodies, even urine, flooded her nostrils as she followed him down a dark staircase to the cells below. Constable Barrows banged his truncheon against the steel bars. ‘Morrison! Visitor!’ He looked at his pocket watch. ‘You’ve got five minutes – no more. I’ll be right here.’

  When Alasdair stepped forward from the shadows Margaret bit back a cry. His cheek was bruised and there was a large cut on his forehead. His shirt was covered in blood, the cuffs of his sleeves saturated with it. Altogether far more blood than would have been caused by any injuries she could see. He clutched the bars of the cell with manacled hands.

  ‘Margaret! Thank God! How did you know I was here?’

  She laid her hand on his. ‘You’re hurt!’

  ‘It’s not my blood. At least not all of it.’ He smiled sourly. ‘I’ve a bit of a bash on the back of my head, though. Bloody policeman.’

  ‘What’s this all about? Why have you been arrested? Who hit you? Whose blood is it?’

  Even in the dim light she could see how shaken he was. ‘I was walking back home from the union offices when I heard some commotion up ahead. Two men came running out from one of the back lanes.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The police asked me that already. Several times.’ He shook his head in frustration. ‘I don’t know who they were. I couldn’t see them properly. It was dark and they were too far away. I knew something wasn’t right, so I went to look.’ He frowned. ‘I couldn’t see anything at first, then I heard a moan. A young lad was lying on the ground. It was obvious he’d been set upon. There was blood everywhere.’ Alasdair paused.

  ‘Go on,’ Margaret urged.

  ‘There was a knife sticking out of the top of his leg and he was trying to pull it out. I told him to leave it, but he wasn’t hearing me.’ Alasdair shook his head again. ‘I remembered that from my time in the army when men got pieces of metal or wood stuck in them from the explosions. In the beginning we pulled them out but one of the doctors told us that sometimes it was better to leave them in until we got the men to the field hospital. I put my hands round the knife to hold it still lest he do more damage.’

  Margaret nodded. It was what he’d done when he’d stopped the men from lifting the girders from Hamish until he’d applied a tourniquet. She was certain Alasdair’s actions had saved Hamish’s life. However, although she’d heard a surgeon give a talk on just this recently, not everyone in the audience had agreed with him.

  ‘Someone must have called the polis,’ Alasdair continued, ‘because the next second they were there. I tried to tell them the lad needed to get to hospital and they were to leave the knife in him until he got there but they wouldn’t listen. The next thing I know I’ve been hit over the head. When I came to, the policemen had slapped cuffs on me and were hauling me to my feet.’ A look of anguish crossed his face. ‘The lad was dead, I could see that. They’d pulled the knife out and he’d bled to death.’

  Margaret tightened her grip. ‘Oh, my love, he might have died anyway. But if you’ve told all this to the police, why are they detaining you? Surely they could see you were trying to help!’

  Alasdair’s eyes filled with confusion. ‘They think I killed him.’

  ‘But they can’t!’ She couldn’t take it all in.

  The constable who had been hovering nearby came and stood beside her
, gripping her by the elbow. ‘Time’s up, Madam.’

  Margaret shrugged him away and grabbed Alasdair’s hand again, desperate to hold on to him for as long as she could. ‘What do I do?’

  ‘Go see Mr Mortram in the morning,’ Alasdair said, referring to his employer. ‘Tell him what I’ve told you. He’ll help me get out of here.’

  The sun was making a weak appearance through the smog by the time Margaret turned the handle of her front door. The children were still in bed, Grace asleep in the chair, snoring softly. Margaret touched her on the shoulder to wake her. The older woman stretched, belched and rubbed sleepy eyes. ‘Everything all right?’ she asked.

  ‘A mix-up,’ Margaret said, not wishing to lie but not wishing to be drawn into conversation either. Surely Alasdair would be home to have supper with them this evening. If he wasn’t, then everyone would find out he’d been arrested soon enough.

  Knowing there was no chance she would sleep, she removed her soiled clothes and wrapped herself in her dressing gown and made a cup of cocoa. Alasdair being arrested was nonsense. Someone somewhere would know who the real attackers were and come forward. Someone would have seen or heard something. She wondered who the lad who’d come to her door was and how he’d found out. Perhaps he had been there. Perhaps he had witnessed everything? If so, why hadn’t he told the police? Unless he still planned to.

  She felt some of the tension ease from her shoulders. It would all be sorted out soon. But Alasdair had asked her to go and see Mr Mortram, so that’s what she’d do.

  She washed and changed into the suit she kept for the times she attended lectures at the university. She wanted to create the right impression when she met with Mr Mortram, and the tailored dark blue skirt and jacket gave her a necessary boost of confidence.

  Peggy arrived just as Margaret was finishing getting ready and Margaret told her what had happened.

  ‘They think he killed a man.’ She couldn’t believe she was saying those words.

  Peggy’s eyes widened. ‘Mr Morrison would never harm a fly.’

  Margaret covered her face with her hands. The night had taken its toll. ‘It feels like I’m in the middle of a nightmare but I’m not going to wake up, am I?’

  Peggy placed an arm around her shoulder and squeezed. ‘You have a good cry, lass. Just let it all out.’

  Margaret shook her head. Now was not the time for her to fall apart. ‘I have to go to his office. They’ll know what to do.’

  ‘What are you going to tell the bairns?’

  ‘I don’t know, Peggy. Perhaps they don’t need to be told anything just yet. Not when their father could be home any moment. Just tell them Mummy’s had to go out for a while.’

  She kissed her sleeping children goodbye, pinned on her wide-brimmed hat and took the tram to the office where Alasdair worked.

  Margaret had never met the partners of Alasdair’s firm, but her husband had always spoken highly of them. Mr Mortram, the senior partner, was alone in his office when the receptionist ushered her in. He came towards her, hands outstretched, his expression puzzled. He was in his late forties with thinning blond hair and intelligent eyes.

  ‘Mr Mortram, I’m Margaret Morrison,’ she said, taking his proffered hand. ‘Thank you for seeing me.’

  ‘Not at all. Not at all.’ He indicated towards a pair of armchairs on either side of the fireplace. ‘Please, Mrs Morrison. Do take a seat.’ No doubt he was wondering what had brought her here.

  Margaret did as he asked although she would much rather have remained on her feet and been allowed to pace.

  ‘Is something wrong? Is your husband ill?’ Mr Mortram asked.

  ‘Not exactly.’ As concisely as she could she explained what had happened.

  His hitherto benign expression had changed while she was talking, his face becoming a mask of disapproval. ‘Alasdair arrested for murder! But this is —’ he stopped and shook his head. ‘Mrs Morrison, I’m shocked and yes, to be perfectly honest, dismayed by what you’ve told me but I don’t see how we can help. We’re not criminal lawyers.’

  ‘But you are lawyers,’ she said stiffly. ‘And Alasdair’s employers – colleagues – friends – there must be something you can do?’

  ‘It’s a criminal lawyer he needs. I can give you a name, of course.’ Mr Mortram pursed his lips. ‘I warned your husband that his union activities would get him into trouble sooner or later. The movements he’s involved with have a reputation —’

  ‘This has nothing to do with his union activities or his political party,’ Margaret protested. ‘This is simply a mistake. He went to help that lad. If you knew anything about my husband you would know he’s not a killer!’

  ‘Of course not, of course not. I must speak to my partners and let them know. You must see that we can’t keep Alasdair on. If he is acquitted —’

  If Alasdair was acquitted! ‘You are going to let him go?’

  ‘You must appreciate our position. We have a reputation to protect. Your husband will understand that.’

  Alasdair had thought she’d get help here. How wrong he’d been.

  Margaret stood and held out her hand. ‘If you’d be so kind as to give me that name, I’ll be on my way.’

  Chapter 16

  The lawyer that Mr Mortram recommended had an office in West George Street and Margaret went there immediately, still determined that by that afternoon Alasdair would be released from custody and home with her.

  Behind a typewriter in the marble-floored foyer of the grand office building sat a woman in her late fifties with frizzy grey hair and spectacles. Although she must have heard the door open and close behind Margaret, she looked up only when Margaret cleared her throat.

  ‘I’d like to see Mr Johnston,’ Margaret said.

  The woman peered at Margaret over the top of her spectacles while continuing to type. ‘Do you have an appointment?’

  ‘No. But I need to see him as soon as possible.’

  ‘Mr Johnston is a busy man.’ She moistened the tip of her finger with a flick of her tongue and leafed through a leather-bound book on her desk. ‘He’d be able to fit you in on the twentieth.’

  ‘But that’s more than two weeks away. I need to see him at once!’

  The woman shook her head. ‘Impossible, I’m afraid.’

  Her attitude reminded Margaret of the more obstructive nursing sisters she’d come across when she’d been on the wards. The worst of them had protected the consultants as if they were demi-gods, not just from the training doctors but, even more determinedly, from the patients and their relatives. Margaret had no intention of leaving without seeing the lawyer. She knew how to deal with women like the one in front of her.

  ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t quite catch your name,’ she said evenly.

  ‘Miss Donaldson,’ was the reluctant reply.

  Margaret picked up the telephone receiver and handed it to her. ‘Please tell Mr Johnston that Dr Margaret Morrison, daughter of William Bannatyne, wishes to see him. Immediately.’ She hated that once again she was forced to resort to using her father’s name but it was the easiest and fastest way to get what she needed.

  Miss Donaldson’s eyes widened and she made a show of consulting her diary again. ‘Mr Johnston just happens to have a spare thirty minutes right now if that would suit?’

  ‘It would suit very well indeed.’

  After a brief call to her employer, Miss Donaldson showed Margaret into Mr Johnston’s office. The lawyer’s room was reassuringly well furnished with a large mahogany desk and two deep armchairs. A Turkish carpet in reds and blues covered most of the floorboards and a large gilded mirror hung over an engraved marble fireplace.

  The man behind the desk rose to his feet and, as he came towards her, Margaret took a moment to study him. He looked to be in his late forties and his deeply pouched eyes were kind and intelligent. Margaret was irreverently reminded of a St Bernard.

  He held out his hand. ‘How do you do, Miss Bannatyne.’ He indicated to
the chair on the other side of the desk with a sweep of his large hands. ‘Please take a seat. Would you like some tea?’

  Margaret shook her head. She had no wish to waste a moment of her precious half hour waiting for Mr Johnston to summon Miss Donaldson and then another agonising wait while tea was served.

  Mr Johnston surveyed her over the top of steepled fingers. ‘Now what I can do for you?’