The Shipbuilder’s Daughter

by Emma Fraser

  ‘Doesn’t anyone know who it was? Someone must have seen something!’

  ‘We’ve been asking but if anyone knows anything then they’re not saying.’

  ‘How’s Alasdair bearing up?’ Mairi asked, with a warning glance at her husband. ‘How are you bearing up?’

  ‘I’m all right, but I don’t know how he is. I’ve only been able to see him once – the night he was arrested.’ Margaret rubbed her forehead wearily. ‘Our lawyer is going to arrange another visit but I don’t know when yet. That’s what’s so hard about all this.’

  Toni reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and pulled out an envelope. ‘This is for you and the bairns.’

  Margaret opened it to find thirty pounds. It was almost twice as much as she’d been able to make from the sale of her belongings.

  She placed the money back inside the envelope and passed it back to Toni. ‘I can’t take this. It’s a small fortune. It must be your entire savings.’

  ‘Hah! I wish it was our savings,’ Toni said. ‘No, this is from the folk in Govan. When we heard Alasdair was arrested we put a hat around.’ He grinned. ‘People were generous. Don’t even think of not keeping it. Folk would be offended. Your husband helped them out when times were hard so now it’s their turn to help.’

  Tears stung Margaret’s eyes. ‘Please tell them how grateful Alasdair and I are. I know how much every penny counts in the households in Govan. It should be Bannatyne’s giving them money not the other way around.’

  But thanks to the kindness of the people of Govan she was almost halfway to gathering the money she needed for Mr Johnston and perhaps it would be enough. Alasdair was bound to be released soon and then the remainder of Mr Johnston’s fees wouldn’t need to be found.

  Chapter 17

  Despite her optimism, Alasdair remained in police custody. Each time she spoke to Mr Johnston he told her not to worry, that it was only a matter of time before Alasdair was freed, but so far it hadn’t happened and Margaret was more and more at a loss to fathom why not. Johnston was supposed to be one of the best criminal lawyers in Scotland, if not the best, yet to her he seemed to be dragging his heels.

  To make matters worse she still hadn’t been allowed to visit Alasdair in prison.

  Finally Mr Johnston sent a telegram asking to see her and she’d rushed over to his office fully expecting that at last he had the news she longed to hear: Alasdair was to be freed and she should arrange to collect him.

  She sat in impatient silence while Mr Johnston leafed through the papers he had in a file on his desk.

  The lawyer sighed then linked his fingers together and cracked each knuckle in turn, each snap sending a tiny shock through Margaret. When he eventually raised his eyes, he looked more woebegone than ever. He cleared his throat. ‘I have completed my enquiries and I have to tell you matters look very bleak indeed. I’d go as far as to say that in my view there is every likelihood that your husband will be found guilty of murder.’

  It was as if someone had tipped ice cold water down her neck. ‘But he’s innocent!’

  Mr Johnston shook his head. ‘I’m afraid that what matters is whether the other side can make a good enough case to convince the majority of the jurors that your husband did indeed do what he is accused of. The prosecution has the statements of the two constables who found your husband at the scene of the crime and with the murder weapon in his hand, and all we have is your husband’s version but no witnesses to verify it. Indeed, the only witnesses I have been able to locate strengthen the prosecution’s case rather than ours.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Her voice seemed to be coming from a long distance away.

  ‘Almost everyone I have spoken to says that there has been trouble between your husband and Billy Barr, the victim’s father, for many years. It’s well known that Billy Barr has long terrorised the streets of Glasgow. I gather that your husband was one of the few who repeatedly stood up to him. He was even seen to assault him on one occasion.’

  She bit her lip so hard it hurt. However, the pain helped focus her mind. ‘But I was there! Alasdair only took Mr Barr’s knife from him because he threatened me. He didn’t hurt him. There were witnesses to that!’

  ‘Yes. Men whom your husband has helped. People who owe your husband – members of opposing gangs – so not altogether convincing witnesses, at least not as far as the Crown’s concerned. And I’m afraid that as you are Mr Morrison’s wife, your version of events won’t be much use either.’

  ‘But why would Alasdair kill Tommy Barr? What possible motive could he have had? If his argument was with anyone it was with the father.’

  ‘Many of the witnesses say your husband swore to put Barr behind bars and his gang out of business. I gather the son was second in position only to his father.’

  ‘Which is all the more reason for people to know Alasdair wouldn’t have murdered anyone. My husband believes in the law! If he thought someone had committed a crime he would want them charged in a court of law – not stabbed in a back lane!’

  ‘It’s not me that requires to be convinced, Mrs Morrison.’

  When Margaret started to speak again he held up his hand. ‘Let us consider first the policemen’s evidence. Apparently they heard shouts and sounds of a scuffle coming from the lane. They were no more than a few minutes away. When they got there they saw your husband bending over the victim, knife in hand. The constables have both signed statements and will testify that your husband was alone and that no one else passed them coming from the lane.’

  ‘The real murderers ran away before the policemen arrived! They passed Alasdair!’

  ‘Yet he can’t identify them – he can’t even describe them beyond saying they were of average height.’

  ‘It was dark! And I explained the first time I came to see you about the knife. My husband learned things when he was in the army. That sometimes it’s safer not to withdraw a knife from a wound. Sometimes it’s only the pressure of the knife on major blood vessels that stops the victim from bleeding to death. Perhaps if the constables had listened to Alasdair that boy might have lived!’

  ‘That, I’m afraid, is a matter of some disagreement in the medical world. The doctors I have spoken to say it is not what is done. On the contrary they say they have never heard of such an approach when it comes to knife wounds.’

  ‘Speak to Dr Bruce Marshall, then. He was in the war. They learned all sorts of things in the field.’

  As Mr Johnston made a note, she threaded her fingers together and forced herself to speak calmly. ‘Furthermore, there must be other people’s fingerprints on the knife. The real murderer, for a start!’

  ‘I’m afraid the only prints on the knife – apart from those of the victim – belong to your husband.’

  ‘Then whoever it was must have been wearing gloves!’ She took another steadying breath. ‘I know it looks bad for Alasdair, but why can’t people accept his version could be as true as the version the prosecution are presenting? Isn’t it up to them to prove Alasdair guilty, not for him to prove his innocence?’

  ‘In theory, not so much in practice. All the jurors will have to go on is the evidence they are presented with and as yet, we have nothing to contradict the prosecution’s case. Our case rests on two other men being in that lane – men no one else saw – and on your husband’s fingerprints being on the knife because he was trying to stop the victim pulling it out. The prosecution on the other hand have two utterly reliable witnesses, men trained to remember exactly what they saw. Moreover, the prosecution claim that the motive is the bad feeling between Mr Barr and your husband. That is weak – I will give you that – but it is a motive of sorts. Indeed, the fact that Mr Morrison came to your aid in the past, even if it was because Mr Barr was threatening you, only adds to the Crown’s case that he had a longstanding grudge against Mr Barr and his family.’

  ‘But we weren’t married then. We’d only just met.’

  Mr Johnston cracked his knuckles again. ‘Th
at wasn’t the only incident. Apparently Mr Barr and your husband have been seen arguing on several occasions. Even with all that against us, we might have been able to take our chances in court. However, two more things are going against us. Firstly, your husband has been in trouble before.’

  The anxiety that had coiled like a snake in the pit of her stomach slithered upwards, squeezing her chest. ‘What trouble? I know he’s taken part in strikes but…’

  ‘I’m not talking about his union business – if only I were. According to the police, your husband has been arrested before – when he was in the army – for striking a sergeant without provocation. If the war hadn’t come to an end when it did he probably would have been court-martialled. As it was he spent a few days in a military gaol.’ He frowned, glancing down at his notes. ‘It doesn’t help our case.’

  Why hadn’t Alasdair told her this? What else didn’t she know about her husband?

  ‘But if it happened when he was in the army that was years ago! He wasn’t more than a boy himself then.’

  ‘A man who like the rest was trained to kill.’ As the grandfather clock ticked into silence, he gave a small shake of his head, his eyes looking more mournful than ever. ‘The second thing going against us is that we have a new Chief Constable in Glasgow who is determined to rid the city of the scourge – as the press call it – of the Glasgow gangs and the associated murder rate. Indeed, that is the main reason he was appointed to the post. When he was Chief Constable in Sheffield he managed to put the fear of God into the gangs there and is determined to do the same here. And the fact that your husband is prominent – not just through his association with you, or rather your father, but through his work with the unions – makes the Chief Constable even keener to make an example of him. He has pledged to show the world that Glasgow will not tolerate crime – whether the perpetrator is a solicitor or a member of one of the gangs.’

  ‘But Alasdair isn’t, nor has ever been, a member of any gang. The very idea is ridiculous!’

  ‘No one is claiming he is a member of a gang – only that he is involved with them, however tangentially.’

  ‘What can we do?’ Margaret whispered. ‘We can’t just give up.’

  ‘What we need is a witness of our own. Someone – preferably more than one – who is utterly reliable, along with some solid evidence pointing to another perpetrator. Then we might be able to put doubt in the jury’s mind. We have searched for anyone or anything to substantiate your husband’s version of events, but have drawn a blank so far. Yet someone, somewhere, must have seen something or – at the very least – know what really happened. But so far – nothing. That makes the prosecution even more certain there is nothing to be found. Your husband is due in court a week on Friday to enter his plea. He has authorised me to instruct Mr Williams, the advocate I have found to represent him, that he wishes to enter a not-guilty plea. If he persists in going with a not-guilty plea, the Crown is keen to go ahead with a trial as soon as possible. They see no reason to delay and, unless I can come up with new evidence, we can’t refuse. So you see why I said the situation is bleak?’

  ‘But not hopeless. Surely?’

  He studied her for a while. ‘Without new information coming to light, there are really only two options open to us if we want to be certain to avoid the death penalty.’

  The room seemed to tilt and sway. She’d come here expecting to hear that Mr Johnston was on the verge of having the charges against Alasdair dropped. Instead he was talking about avoiding the death penalty! ‘You can’t think they will really hang him?’ The words came out as a whisper.

  ‘I’m very much afraid that is the penalty for murder.’

  Margaret swallowed hard. ‘What are you saying?’

  Mr Johnston cleared his throat. ‘Either your husband pleads guilty but with a plea of self-defence – and I am not at all sure that will wash —’

  She clenched her hands together so tightly her nails dug into her palms. ‘Or?’ Her mouth was so dry she could barely speak.

  ‘Or he pleads guilty and we plea bargain his sentence. That way it won’t have to go to trial and with a bit of luck we may be able to get his sentence reduced to life.’

  ‘Life!’ Margaret echoed.

  ‘He’s still in his thirties. With good behaviour he might only have to serve fifteen years.’

  ‘Alasdair will never plead guilty to something he didn’t do – and certainly not murder.’

  ‘Then he must take his chances in court.’ Mr Johnston gathered the papers together and replaced them in the file. ‘There you have it. I truly wish I could have given you more reason for optimism. One way or another, Mrs Morrison, it appears as if your husband is going down for the murder of Tommy Barr. The best we can hope for is to save his life.’ He placed his interlinked hands on the desk and leaned forward. ‘I’ve arranged for you to visit Mr Morrison tomorrow at Duke Street. For his sake and yours, warn him that unless we can find new evidence in the next couple of days, he should think long and hard about pleading guilty.’

  That night Margaret brought James and Libby into bed with her, knowing they needed to be close to her.

  James had started talking – just a few words here and there but enough, for short spells anyway, to divert Elizabeth who James, unable to get his tongue around her name, called Libby.

  Alasdair should be here to witness it all. Everything happened so fast at this age, and once missed could never be re-experienced. She couldn’t bear to think of a future where Alasdair would not be around to see his children grow up.

  Even with the comfort of their hot bodies next to her, she’d never felt more alone. She tossed and turned all night. Everything that had been said in the meeting with Mr Johnston kept going around and around in her head. It was no longer just a case of continuing to find money for Alasdair’s defence. If Johnston were to be believed, and she saw no reason to doubt him, there was every chance Alasdair would be convicted of murder and no amount of money or lawyers was going to change that. They needed to find witnesses of their own – or even better, new evidence – or Alasdair would hang. Even thinking it was possible made her want to be sick.

  When she did eventually fall asleep it was to dream that she was alone in a field so foggy she could barely see her hands when she held them in front of her. She sensed something hidden in the murky depths she didn’t want to see. At that moment the fog cleared and in front of her was a body hanging from gallows, swinging in the wind. Time slowed until it felt as if there were minutes between each of her heartbeats. A sudden gust of wind turned the swaying body in her direction. The face was blue, the eyes bulging, but she saw immediately it was Alasdair. He raised his hands towards her and she cried out. Suddenly she was awake, her heart racing, her nightie damp with perspiration.

  Fear kept her pinned to the bed for a long time. It was only a nightmare, she told herself over and over. Alasdair was still alive.

  But for how long?

  Knowing she’d be unable to get back to sleep, she eased herself out from between her children, careful not to wake them.

  She couldn’t let him hang! Not if there was any way to stop it.

  Chapter 18

  By the time she’d bathed, Peggy had arrived and the children were up. Peggy set her newly washed hair for her while the children watched in wide-eyed silence. Then Margaret dressed in her favourite frock, adding a touch of lipstick, before finishing off her outfit with a blue felt hat that matched her dress.

  The children clung to her when she told them she was going out and Peggy had to prise them away with the promise of cocoa followed by a trip to the park.

  Although there was a new prison in Glasgow – Barlinnie – some prisoners, Alasdair amongst them, were still held at the old one in Duke Street near the town centre. Duke Street prison was notorious for its living conditions, but it had the single advantage of being closer for Margaret to get to.

  She stood at the gates and suppressed a shudder. This was where the flo
tsam of Glasgow life ended up. Worse still, this was where those found guilty of murder were hanged.

  She couldn’t help but think of the last person to have been hanged here – a woman charged and found guilty of murdering her paperboy. How terrified she must have been when she’d learned she was to die. How terrified she must have been going to the gallows. And she’d been guilty!

  Margaret pushed the morbid thoughts away and clasped her hands together to stop them shaking.

  Inside, the small, cramped waiting room with its bare, peeling walls was crowded – almost exclusively with women. Some sat in tight-lipped silence but most gossiped and knitted as if coming to visit their husbands in gaol was no different to a trip to the wash house.