DEAD MONEY

by TERESA HUNTER

  We walked down a dimly-lit corridor, with a plush, but stained red carpet. The walls were a deep scarlet. It was airless. Before long, I would be struggling to breathe.

  “Do you need to powder your nose?” he asked, pausing at the ladies toilet for a moment. There was mischief in his eyes.

  “I’m fine thanks.”

  At the bottom of the corridor, double doors opened into an explosion of spinning lights and throbbing music. The room was packed, with sweaty bodies. Though it was early by normal nightclub standards, this audience was already hyped up by the prospect of the spectacle ahead. And then I saw it, high on a platform in the middle of the arena. The cage.

  Pitcher seemed to relish the slow dawning of what I had let myself in for.

  “It’s called cage war,” he shouted, through the pounding beats. “You lock two Neanderthals in a cage and watch them kill each other.”

  My gaze circled the huge arena. There had to be nearly a thousand people here, maybe more. The hammering music was piercing my eardrums, and the flashing lights made me nauseous. There was a massive screen on a far wall, playing out previous fights.

  “What on earth makes anyone come to a place like this,” I shouted to Pitcher, above the noise.

  “Our desire to kill each other. Bloody and brutal, ain’t we? Want a drink?”

  I grabbed his arm.

  “Don’t leave me,” I said, pathetically. He looked down at my grasp and smirked.

  “How touching. You see, I do have my appeal.”

  This was too much, so I let my arm drop. “I’ll have a soft drink, lemonade, orange. I’ll be sitting there.” I pointed to a table against the back wall. “Don’t be long.”

  From a door across the room, I watched as two fighters entered the club and approach the cage. The crowd broke into an almighty roar, a primeval, atavistic sound, savage and ferocious.

  A strobe light followed the fighters, flashing on them menacingly. Both their heads were shaved and one had a vicious scar running the length of one side of his face. I had seen the other before, just the other night at the Kilberry. He was the man with the gold earring.

  I followed their progress as they mounted the steps to the central arena. And then I saw him, Tom Kelly, on the opposite side of the cage. He was talking to another man, dressed in a classic three-piece suit.

  “Heard of Frankie McSherry?” Pitcher said, sitting beside me.

  “No, thanks to you.”

  “That’s him.” He pointed to the man Kelly was talking to. I had been wondering as much. He had clean-cut hair, different from Kelly’s, whose dark locks were once again tied back in a ponytail.

  “You see this fighter?” I replied. “I saw him with Kelly when we were up at Tarbert.”

  “And?”

  “He wears a gold earring, with a cross. Exactly the type Mrs Livingstone said one of the men her husband disappeared with was wearing.”

  “You saw this character with Kelly?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s what I wanted to hear.”

  The fighters entered the cage, which was locked behind them and the sport began. The crowd’s roar increased in violence, as they punched and kicked at each others’ body and face. It did not take long for one man to be knocked down onto the floor. It was the one with the earring. His opponent, scar-face, smashed his head down repeatedly onto the cage floor. With each crashing blow, the crowd roared approval.

  “My god, he’s going to kill him.” Even, from a distance, I could see blood gushing from his ears and nose.

  “No, they’ll stop it, before he’s actually dead.”

  “Can’t you stop it, Pitcher?”

  “All perfectly legal, m’dear.”

  “His brains will burst open.” I stood up. “I can’t stand this. I’ve got to go.”

  He followed me out, the thunderous roar of the crowd still hammering in my ears. Once back in the fresh air, I leant over the kerb and retched.

  “Those tickets cost me £45 each. Dinner’s going to have to be on you.”

  Sympathy was never his strong suit.

  “I couldn’t eat a thing.”

  “Come on, I’ll buy you a drink.”

  “I want to get away from here.”

  “OK, OK... we’ll go somewhere else.”

  A cab passed, he hailed it, and within minutes, we were back in the Merchant City, outside the restaurant we had visited after the inquest.

  “Come on, let’s revisit our scenes of crime, eh? You’ll be safe in a prison.”

  I was past caring where we went. The table we had last eaten at was free, so he asked if we could sit there. I ordered camomile tea, to settle my stomach. He asked for a pint of beer, and began studying the menu, finally, ordering steak, rare, chips and all the trimmings.

  “Sure you don’t want anything?” he asked, as he finished ordering. I shook my head. The tea calmed my nerves. It wasn’t long before his meal arrived too.

  “That club. Is it legal?”

  “The fight is legal.”

  “It’s barbaric, disgusting.”

  “Of course, but what a money spinner, at £45 per ticket.”

  I watched him cut into his thick steak. Blood oozed all over his plate. What a barbaric species we are.

  “Were you casing the joint?” I knew these words sounded like something out of a cheap cop drama, but I couldn’t think of a better way to put it.

  “I wanted to have a good look around.”

  “So the club isn’t legal?”

  “It’s fully licensed, I guess that makes it legal.”

  “What everything?”

  “Ahhh,” he said, concentrating harder than ever on cutting his steak. “I didn’t say everything going on under that roof was legal.”

  That reminded me of my afternoon visit to Kelly Castle.

  “I went to see Mary Kelly this afternoon,” I said.

  “The grand dame. What did she say? My family are innocent, we worked hard for every penny.”

  “How did you guess? She was impressive though. This city had a hard time for decades. In London, we recovered from the depression quickly. I don’t think they did here, not until recently.”

  “Explains a lot. But don’t start going soft on the Kellys. It doesn’t suit you, and I don’t think I could stomach it.”

  “It puts things into perspective sometimes, that’s all. Two sides to every story and all that.”

  “We are talking about the Kellys here.” He was wiping the last trace of juices off his plate with a piece of bread, when his phone rang. “Ah ..huh... right. Gallow Terrace.... I’m on my way.”

  He clicked off the phone and stood up.

  “I’ve got to go.”

  “Where to?”

  “Job,”

  “Can I come?”

  “No. Not the press,” Seeing my face fall, he relented, “Oh, come on then. It’s nothing you’ve never seen before.”

  As he moved away from the table, he pointed back at it.

  “Three tenners should do it,” I threw the money down.

  He had parked a car around the corner, one from the police fleet, I guessed, and punched an address into the Satnav. We seemed to be headed out Black Top way, but it was dark so I couldn’t be sure. After about 20 minutes, he pulled up outside a rundown tenement. Three police cars were already there. We arrived as two men were being manhandled into the back of one of them.

  “You’re so fond of the Kellys. Come and see their handy work.”

  Pitcher jumped out, slammed the door, walked over to one of the cars and spoke to the officers. I got out too, and waited. I didn’t catch what they were discussing. The car sped away with the prisoners inside. Pitcher produced his ID for the cop on the door. We were both waved into the block.

  The inspector raced up the stairs two at a time. They were dark, dank and smelt of urine. One naked bulb at the top lit the whole stairwell.

  The fifth floor was a buzz of activity. More officers at the door.
For the second time that evening, I felt my stomach heave into my mouth. The stench of filth and decay hit me full force as I crossed the threshold of a depressing little apartment. The walls were marked with what looked like blood and excrement. I looked into the kitchen. Rotting rubbish was piled in a corner. Three mice scampered over the leftovers. I followed Pitcher into the lounge.

  There were four young women there. Another brothel. Two women officers were attempting to interview them with the help of interpreters. They spoke no English.

  “Seen enough,” Pitcher came back to me, and spoke in a low voice. But I hadn’t. Not yet. I approached the scantily-dressed girls.

  “I’m looking for a girl called Roxy. About thirteen years old? Do you know where I might find her?”

  Their expressions were blank, as they either shrugged their shoulders or shook their heads. I couldn’t tell if they didn’t understand what I was asking, or they didn’t know the answer.

  “You shouldn’t be here. You’ve no right to question witnesses,” one of the women officers said.

  “Come on, we’d better go,” Pitcher pulled my elbow. I followed him out. He drove me back to my hotel. When the car stopped, I didn’t move. He leaned across and opened the door.

  “I think this is your stop.”

  I made no attempt to get out.

  “Do you want me to come in with you?”

  It was piteous I know, but I nodded.

  “I suppose, I could use a coffee.”

  “No sugar for me,” he said, a few minutes later, sitting on my bed. “I’m sweet enough as I am.”

  “How can you make gags after that,” my temper was ragged. “Pitcher, that house… you said the Kellys’ work. Are the Kellys behind it?”

  “We’ve taken a couple of their goons into custody. Let’s wait to hear what they have to say.”

  “You’ve held out on me all the way. Be straight with me now... please.”

  “Me, keep Lightbulb in the dark? I’ve not kept things from you. But there’s no point passing on theories I can’t prove.”

  “Such as?”

  “Think about London. You know the London Clubs, and some of their famous owners. What do a lot of them have in common?”

  “They’re often fronts for more serious criminal activity.”

  “Such as?”

  “Drugs, prostitution, what you guys call vice, I think. This is all way out of my area.”

  “Exactly.”

  “The Kellys are different,” I shook my head. “They have a respectable business. How could the brewery fit into this, or the pension come to that?”

  “It could be connected. We just have to find the connection.”

  “Had Ken Strachan found a connection?”

  “It’s possible.”

  “The girls.”

  “Illegal immigrants. Tricked into a new life in a new world thousands of miles from home.”

  “Sex slaves.”

  “They reckon there are 10,000 in the UK, and Glasgow has the highest number after London…”

  “Why don’t they just run away? Go to the police?”

  “Run where? They’ve nowhere to go. No money, no papers. You can bet they’ve already learnt what a good beating feels like.”

  “And the police are up to their eyes in all this?”

  “I don’t know about up to their eyes. There’s rotten apples in every barrel. I’ve got a good team here, men I can trust. We’ll root them out.”

  “When?”

  “All in good time, Lightship.”

  I thought of the grand dinner I had attended at Kelly Castle; of Jack Kelly, a respected figure of the community, politicians at his elbow. And then I thought of Patterson, and his quiet, conservative life in Hampshire. And finally, I thought of the stench in that flat, and the mice crawling over the garbage.

  Pitcher looked at his watch, stood and placed his cup on the coffee-making tray.

  “I’m tired. I’m going back to my hotel. I suggest you catch the next flight back to London.” He opened the door, before pausing to add.

  “Make sure you keep this well locked,” he closed the door behind him.

  If only I had followed his advice.

  Chapter 39

  12.30am Tuesday, November 13,

  Glasgow

  “Are you looking for a girl called Roxy?” My phone rang about half-an hour after the inspector left. It was a man’s voice.

  “Who are you?”

  “I have the information you are looking for.”

  “What information?”

  “Meet me in an hour.”

  “Where?”

  “The brewery... down by the vats. No one will trouble us there.”

  The phone clicked dead. I was unsure what to do next. A small voice of caution warned me to be careful. But what if the call were genuine? It was perfectly possible mine or Sister Robert’s inquiries had ferreted out a source. This might be my last chance to help the poor child and solve the connection between her disappearance and the death of the Strachans, if indeed, they were connected.

  I looked out the window. The street below was deserted; the glitter of premature Christmas lights, banging in the wind, eerie rather than cheery. Sleet rain had begun to fall, mingling with a few flakes of snow. Freezing hail looked on its way. It was going to be a bitter night. I could call Pitcher; ask him what to do, but be would probably dismiss the call as another hoax.

  I caught a cab at the Queen Street rank and asked the driver to drop me half-a-mile away from the factory, so I wouldn’t be spotted slipping in. The wind and sleet bit into my face. With each step, the stench of the brewery grew more nauseous. There was a light on in security, but no one was there. The site seemed deserted. A strategically-positioned lamp lit a signpost giving directions to specific parts of the site. It was simple enough to follow.

  I found my way easily to the wells, and on to the brew house. There were brass plaques on each of the chambers identifying their functions. The brew house was stifling; hotter than a sauna, and the smell of mashed hops stewing in huge coppers overpowering. I wondered whether I could make it through without being sick. Would you ever get used to the rancid smell, I wondered, even after a life-time working there.

  The brew house led through to another dank chamber, where the temperature eased slightly. It was snaked with massive pipe-works leading to even bigger tanks, where I suppose the boiled mixture was cooled.

  Another door at the far end opened onto narrow steps leading down to an underground cellar. Here the temperature suddenly froze, taking my breath away. This was the cavern of the vats, the appointed meeting place. It was bitterly cold, too cold for me to bear. I was the first to arrive. There was no one there. A dim light glowed, but the rest of this underground chamber was in total darkness. I waited for five minutes, then another five. My legs began to stiffen. I tried to keep warm by moving, but that seemed to make it worse.

  A dull burning sensation crept into my bones, as I waited another five minutes. I couldn’t survive this temperature much longer. At last, I heard footsteps at the other end of the long cellar.

  “Hello,” I shouted. “Who’s there?”

  Gradually, out of the darkness, an outline of a male figure emerged. It was Frankie McSherry, Tom Kelly’s business partner.

  “It’s kinda cool down here, don’t you agree?” he said, as he loosened the button on his jacket, the same classic suit he had been wearing earlier that evening, at the club. This was not what I had expected, not at all. I waited for him to speak, unsure what would happen next.

  “It’s good of you to come,” he sneered.

  “I’m looking for a missing girl. Do you know where I can find her?” My tone was confident, but my courage was ebbing fast.

  “There’s only one girl I know anything about, and it’s a nosey parker journalist, persecuting an innocent family.”

  “Look, I’m cold and tired.”

  “They are the least of your worries.” He moved clos
e to me now and spoke into my face, his breath as putrid as the smell of soured malt.

  “I’ve got a message for you. Leave the Kelly family alone.” Then he turned and shouted back into the dark end of the cellar.

  “She’s all yours.”

  A group of thugs emerged from the shadows. I recognised two immediately as the cage-fighters; scarface and the man with the gold earring. The kaleidoscope had twisted again. I heard a terrifying cheer, half animal, and saw a mouthful of gold teeth sparkling in the dark. Jesus. I began to run. But my legs were too cold. I stumbled and felt two arms grab me, and I knew what was coming next. My mind flashed back to the beatings I’d endured at the hands of my husband. Something inside me snapped. No, not without a fight. I reached into my pocket for the spray Sister Robert had handed me that morning and sprayed it full into the face of the brute holding me. He pitched back. I re-aimed the spray again and zapped two others lurching towards me. They, too, fell back. As he staggered, the one with the earring knocked the spray out of my hand.

  But I was free and I ran as hard as I could. I made it to the stairs and was half way up, when they caught up with me again, and started grabbing my legs, with fists as hard as rocks. Adrenaline kept me going. I kicked and kicked viciously into their faces. It wasn’t easy, but I made it to the top. My heart was pounding fit to burst, as I raced through the snake room, and out to the brew house. I had made it this far. I was ahead. I could see a security light. Once outside, I could run for it, and call for help.

  But then, I couldn’t see the light anymore. The exit was blocked. A huge figure stood grinning before me. There must have been a shortcut. I was trapped. I could hear the rest of the animals clamouring up behind.

  “We like a woman with a bit of spirit, don’t we boys” the scarred- face crumpled into an ugly grin, and again the gold-teeth glistened. “She goes that mile further before passing out.”

  He walked towards me and with one swift kick felled me. My arm seared with pain as it hit one of the scalding tanks. I was on fire, from the burn, the heat and the terror. Four of them pinned me down. My trousers and pants were ripped off. I closed my eyes, and braced myself for the pain to begin.