by Todd, Ian
“Will he hiv family in wae him?” she’d asked.
“Well, he hisnae so far, bit ye never know. There could be family travelling fae abroad…who knows? If that’s the case, then they’ll hiv tae get their skates oan. Dr Walsh says he’s surprised he’s still wae us.”
She’d managed tae get word doon tae Senga at The Royal, who’d goat a message back tae her telling her no tae worry, as there wid always be other nights. Efter checking o’er the ventilator and monitor, she wis surprised tae hear the door behind her open. When she turned, Dr Walsh, followed by a shifty-looking man in a chequered sports jacket, entered the room.
“Nurse, this is Inspector McPhee. He’s a dear friend of Mr Murray and is paying his last respects before he expires,” he whispered.
“Er, is he family?” she asked, looking at the plain-clothed polisman.
“Ah’m the nearest thing he’s goat, hen. Me and er, Sandy, Mr Murray, go back a long way. Noo, if it’s okay wae yersels, Ah’ll jist take a wee minute tae express ma condolences and say ma farewells,” The Stalker said, tip-toeing away fae them and plapping that arse ae his doon oan tae the plastic padded chair beside the patient’s heid.
“Is Sister aware that Mr Murray his a visitor at five past wan in the morning, who isnae a member ae his family, Doctor?” Lizzie asked, looking fae the doctor tae the polisman and back again, efter being led by the elbow across tae the door.
“Sister is on her break, Nurse…er…Mathieson,” the doctor replied, looking at the name badge oan her uniform.
“So, ye’ll let her know that a friend, er, a polisman is present, and looks tae be trying tae interview the patient?” she persisted, looking across at the bed, biting her bottom lip and feeling uncomfortable.
“Look, you heard the inspector state that he is the nearest person to family that the patient has. The inspector isn’t here on police business. He only wants five minutes. I’ll deal with matron…you just do your job,” the doctor snapped at her abruptly, leaving her staunin there oan her lonesome.
“Haufwit? Haufwit, kin ye hear me? It’s Paddy,” The Stalker whispered intae the patient’s ear, efter hivving left the doctor tae explain his presence tae the duty nurse.
Silence.
“Haufwit, it’s me, Paddy…The Stalker. Ur ye awright, son? Kin ye hear me?”
The Inspector looked aboot, heartened by a wee flicker ae the eyelids and a quiet wee groan, emitting fae the dry, cracked lips ae the wheezing patient.
“Haufwit, dae ye know who done this tae ye, son?”
“Pad?” the patient wheezed. “Pa…Paddy?”
“Aye, it’s me, Sandy. Tell me who done this tae ye and Ah’ll get the basturts?”
“Pen…pency…pen…pencil.”
“Look, Haufwit, don’t worry, Ah’ve goat it at the ready, son, so Ah hiv. Jist spit it oot, whitever ye want tae say. Ah’ll jist write it doon in that wee black book ae mine. Let’s get the basturts that did this, eh?” The Stalker whispered encouragingly, glancing across at the suspicious-looking nurse, who wisnae hiding the fact that she wis trying tae lug in tae whit wis being said.
Fuck her, he telt himsel. He’d deal wae any fall-oot later. In the meantime, he hid business tae be getting oan wae.
“Paddy…Paddy…Toby…Bootsy Bell…battered in Bob, Bob Montieth’s…factor’s offices…Woodside…Shaun Murphy…Peter the Plant… took them…took…factory in the Coocaddens…Coocaddens…tortured…shot by Wan-bob himsel…baseball bat…Charlie…Charlie Hastie,” Haufwit rasped, breathing sounding like a slice ae pork crackling, spitting oan tap ae a charcoal brazier.
“Haufwit, whit aboot Blaster then? Blaster Mackay? Wis he involved?” he whispered, scowling a warning across at the nurse, who wis glaring back at him, warning her no tae even think ae butting in.
“Python Lee Jackson…Iron Works…sang in McGregor’s…McGregor’s club across the water…Wan-bob no happy…the quiet boy…the quiet wan…young Simpson, young Simpson…Blas…deid…farmer…Alexandra…chicken farmer…Wan-bob…Charlie Hastie…ambush…took him,” Haufwit gurgled, before gaun quiet, as The Stalker sat back oan his chair, cursing himsel fur obviously arriving too late. “Shot…Coocaddens…deid…aw deid…Wan-bob…Wan-bob,” Haufwit started up again, murmuring deliriously, seeming tae fall in and oot ae consciousness, his breathing quietly clattering like an exhaust pipe wae a hole in it.
“Look, sir, Ah’m gonnae hiv tae ask ye tae leave…as in right noo. The patient’s getting terribly distressed, so he is,” Lizzie hauf hissed, hauf screeched, as the monitors roond the bed started lighting up like Lewis’s shoap front windae oan Christmas Eve.
“Look, no the noo, hen. Kin ye no see he’s trying tae tell me something important here?” The Stalker snapped, desperate noo, ignoring the stupid bitch.
“Look, Ah’m sorry, ye’ll hiv tae leave or Ah’m calling fur Sister…Ah mean it,” she threatened him, heiding across tae the alarm buzzer oan the wall.
“Okay, okay, right, Ah’ll jist let him finish whit he’s saying and that’s it and then Ah’ll be offskie. Jist gie me another minute, hen, please?” The Stalker pleaded, while at the same time, trying tae scribble doon whit Haufwit wis mumbling, as the dying man dug his fingernails intae his wrist.
“Bank job…Maryhill…Mankys…no the boy Taylor…no Taylor.”
“Whit’s that Haufwit? Say that again, son?” The Stalker asked, astonished.
“Mankys…Gucci…no Taylor…no Taylor…no bank…Taylor boy shot… Shaun Murphy…Shaun deid…bridge…bridge…Johnboy Taylor…no bank…Gucci…quiet wan and Snapp…bank job.”
“Naw Haufwit, it wis that young Taylor that shot big Liam Thompson. We know aw The Mankys wur involved, including him. That’s whit happened. The basturt goat sent doon fur fourteen years, so he did,” The Stalker hauf screeched, hauf pled, in total denial ae whit he’d jist heard.
He wisnae sure if that sphincter ae his wis expanding wae joy efter being telt whit hid become ae The Simpsons, Blaster McKay and Shaun Murphy or by the news that, wan ae The Mankys, Taylor, hidnae shot Big Liam Thompson and that young constable, while they wur staunin in the queue ae the bank waiting tae make a withdrawal, when the stupid basturts should’ve been oot oan the street catching crooks.
“Johnston…Snapp John…fired shotgun…bank…Maryhill…bank.”
“Right, if ye’re no oot this door in five seconds flat, this buzzer is getting pressed,” The nurse warned him again, making him jump at the intrusion ae her voice.
“Aw, fur Christ’s sakes!” he squealed in frustration.
“Wan…Two…”
The Stalker hesitated, and looked at her. Their eyes locked.
“Three…”
The Inspector felt the room spinning. Everything hid slowed doon, while at the same time, her finger hovering o’er the alarm button suddenly jumped in tae focus in front ae they eyes ae his. It wis as if he wis looking doon a long, narrow tube, at that threatening finger hovering through the wrang end ae high powered binoculars.
“Four…”
The bitch fucking meant it.
“Right, right, Ah’m oan ma way. Don’t get yer bloody knickers in a twist,” he cursed her, as he crossed the room and wrenched open the door, disappearing oot intae the hauf lit, silent corridor.
“Good evening. My name is John Turney and these are the news headlines in Scotland tonight.
One of the biggest goods train robberies in recent years took place in Cowlairs, Springburn, last night, when an estimated nine hundred cases of Macallan Single malt whisky and over two hundred thousand cigarettes were stolen from stationary wagons whilst undergoing emergency maintenance checks due to a brake failure before heading south to ports in southern England. The goods wagons, left unattended over a three-hour period, were broken into and the contents removed. Police believe trucks or vans were involved in the transfer of the stolen property and witnesses are asked to contact Inspector Paddy McPhee at Springburn Police Station where confidentiality will be guaranteed…
There was shock in the financial markets and in people’s pockets after home loan rates were raised today. The loan rate is now standing at 11% after the Council of the Building Society Association rates went up by 1%…
A GPO mail van and the two drivers inside, were held up at gunpoint and a number of sacks containing pay packets were stolen outside GE Roberts Engineering, in Dobbies Loan, Townhead, around eight-thirty this morning. No-one was believed to be hurt in the incident. A GPO spokesman said that the robbers made off with untraceable bank notes in excess of eleven thousand pounds…
The unidentified driver of what appears to be a classic Formula One silver sports car has been out on Great Western Road in the early hours of the city again, after being pursued by police from Cowcaddens Road up as far as Anniesland Cross. Average speeds of over one hundred and fifty five miles an hour were clocked, as the driver sped through red lights, putting himself and other road users’ lives in danger. Two police squad cars were involved in separate, minor accidents, along the route during the chase as the culprit disappeared down Crow Road in Anniesland. Chief Inspector John Bower, from the force’s Traffic Section, said that it was only by the grace of God that the chase took place at twenty past one in the morning when Great Western Road was quiet and that…
Mr and Mrs John Mackieson are celebrating seventy years of marriage together today. The loving couple, both residents of Happy Days old folk’s home in Cardonald, put the success of their long and happy marriage down to the fact that Mrs Mack always wore the trousers and Mr Mack kept a tight grip on the purse strings…”
Chapter Thirty Two
Two months hid passed since Flora Connor hid sat doon across fae him in his office in The Candleriggs. In the intervening time, while waiting fur permission fae The Scottish Home and Health Department tae grant him access through client status tae her son, Silas hid conducted as much research as time hid allowed intae the background ae Robert Conner’s case. This hid included a trip oot tae Stirling tae talk tae Inspector Tom Barron, the lead investigating officer in the disappearance and probable murder ae Ann Broon. He felt himsel wince at the use ae the word ‘probable.’ He’d spent an evening wae an experienced, celebrated brief and good friend ae his, John Howdy. John Howdy and his partner, Willie Barker, ae Howdy & Barker Associates, wur a pair ae dandily-dressed Faculty ae Advocate members, mair commonly known by the man in the street as Queens Counsels. They’d made an absolute killing in the sixties, operating oot ae the district courts in Glesga, efter the universal introduction ae Legal Aid fur those who couldnae afford legal representation back in 1964. They wur, whit could be best described as, controversial and colourful characters and wur furever being subjected tae internal investigations by baith The Crown Office in Edinburgh and the UK Inland Revenue authorities in London. Of course, nothing illegal hid ever been found tae incriminate them, although they wur well-known in legal circles fur sailing close tae the wind. It wis said that John and Willie wid’ve represented a wan-winged fly oan a wall, if they could’ve found a way tae persuade it tae sign oan the dotted line ae the Legal Aid form. They wrote lucrative weekly columns in The Glesga Echo and The Sunday Echo respectively, and appeared regularly oan the telly and radio when comments and opinions wur being sought oan whit wis deemed complicated cases fur mere journalists tae explain tae the great unwashed sitting in front ae their televisions at night. John Howdy hid been Robert Connor’s Queens Counsel leading up tae and during his trial.
“Christ, Silas, things must be desperate if ye’re sniffing aboot in the Connor case,” John hid scoffed, biting intae his bloody steak.
“So, it wis open and shut then?”
“Well, whether he murdered that young lassie or no is irrelevant. He wis jist as guilty as that monkey wis aw they years ago, doon in Hartlepool, as far as the jury wur concerned.”
“So, let me get this straight, John. Ur ye suggesting, in your professional opinion, that the conviction ae Robert Connor could be unsafe?”
“Silas, whit Ah’m suggesting is, yer boy, Connor, comes across as slippery and sleekit oan the wan haun and as weird as a bent nine-penny piece oan the other. He’s wan ae these people that when first being introduced tae him, he instantly makes people believe that he’s guilty, whether a crime his been committed or no. Put it this way, he widnae be ma first choice, if me and Isobel wur stuck fur a baby-sitter in an emergency,” John hid replied, lifting up his glass and taking a fair wee moothful ae his Mouton-Rothschild. “If somewan wis tae paint an abstract picture ae pure evil, then ye’d probably no be surprised tae learn that it widnae be difficult tae spot Robert Connor’s face lurking aboot in there somewhere, staring oot at ye, like a bare arse at a blind Bishop’s ordination.”
“Aye, bit is he a killer?” Silas hid pressed him.
“Who knows? And anyway, why ur ye so interested in somewan like him fur? Wur ye no offered the case and knocked it back, before that useless piece ae cadaver, Kester Truffle accepted it?” John hid asked, fork paused in mid-air, looking across the white tablecloth at him, before shrugging and taking a stab at an escaping mushroom that wis swimming aboot in the blood oan his plate.
“Bit, whit aboot the reports ae her popping up, aw o’er the place, in tow wae some aulder guy?” Silas hid pressed, ignoring the question.
“There wur numerous supposedly sightings ae her, popping up, the length and breadth ae England and Wales, the last being reported in Cardiff oan the 17th November, eight days efter she disappeared, twenty-four hours before Connor goat lifted the second time and that creepy arse ae his slung in tae the untried hall up in Barlinnie. Seemingly it led a lot ae polis forces oan a merry goose-chase, so it did.”
“Aye, Inspector Barron, who wis in charge ae the case, showed me the list wae the dates. And he’s no my boy, John. You wur the wan that wis defending him, remember,” Silas hid reminded him.
“Aye,” The QC hid replied thoughtfully, nodding, drapping his voice, before looking aboot the busy restaurant. “Bit, whit the good inspector widnae hiv been able tae tell ye, wis that the actual last reported sighting ae her did indeed place the girl doon in Cardiff, bit it wis a week efter Robert Connor’s arse wis slung in jail.”
“Eh? Whit? Ur ye sure, John? Surely, that cannae be right,” The Brief hid exclaimed, looking aboot as he leaned forward across the table, clearly flustered. “That’s certainly no whit it said oan Inspector Barron’s list ae dates and whit wis aired fae the witness staun up in the High Court during the trial. The last reported phone call wis, as you said, the day before Robert Connor wis lifted fur the second time and charged wae the lassie’s disappearance and murder,” Silas hid reminded him, confused as tae where this turn ae events hid been leading and feeling that heart ae his thumping faster and his indigestion taking a turn fur the worse.
“The date Ah’m referring tae only surfaced later…long efter the trial and the appeal refusal.”
Silence.
“According tae The Crown, the authorities only ever managed tae trace where wan ae the so-called ‘sighting’ calls came fae, as they wur referred tae at the trial. That wis oot ae a total ae thirteen reported calls made via public telephone boxes. The number ae calls wisnae thirteen, bit wis in fact fourteen. Seemingly the intelligence services wur bugging telephone conversations o’er a period ae time between Mick McGahey, oor very own, home-grown Scottish Communist miner’s leader, and whoever, using the same station that yer Inspector Barron wis based in, oot in Stirling, as an eavesdropping base. Baith the Cardiff calls and the voice behind them, wur picked up by the equipment being used by a Special Branch inspector friend ae mine. These wur the Welsh wans and wur made fae a phone box, traced tae Castle Street, Cardiff.”
Silence.
“And the others?” Silas’s voice hid croaked.
“The other calls wur either phoned in tae other cop shoaps or tae newsrooms and news desks ae rags like The Glesga Echo before Connor’s arrest. Whitever happened tae Ann Broon…the answer is tae be found in Cardif
f. That friend ae mine felt sorry fur Inspector Barron, so threw him a crust by informing him that they’d picked up a call before yer boy Connor’s arrest. He couldnae let oan that there hid been a team ae eavesdroppers operating in the vicinity.”
“Bit, dis that mean the caller’s voice wis recor…”
“Silas, listen tae me,” The QC interjected, cutting The Brief short. “Make a connection between Cardiff and Robert Connor and that’ll solve whitever happened tae that young lassie,” The QC continued, nodding that heid ae his, before drapping his voice again. “Ah also heard, oan good authority, that it wis the same male voice oan the two recordings…full tilt, guttural, Glaswegian accent. So, ye see Silas, it couldnae hiv been Robert Connor, as he wis awready banged up in C-Hall, the untried hall in Barlinnie, when the last calls wur made. There’s a creepy tape wae this really distinct voice oan it, so there is.”
“Distinct? How distinct?”
“Wake up, Maggie, Ah think Ah’ve goat something tae say tae ye…” The QC sang quietly and badly.
“Ah’m sorry, John, bit ye’ve lost me here,” Silas hid said, baffled and shaking that heid ae his, no hivving a bloody clue as tae where The QC wis coming fae.
“Rod Stewart…Maggie May?”
“Eh?”
“A voice that rasped away, sounding like a sheet ae sandpaper being scraped across a lump ae rough pine, by aw accounts.”
“Ah’m sorry, John. Ah cannae believe whit Ah’ve jist heard. Ah think Ah’m gonnae throw up,” he said, taking oot his handkerchief and wiping his brow.
“That pal ae mine? Ex-cop, so he is. They aw ur in Special Branch, whereas the MI5 boys ur aw straight oot ae the private schools network doon in Englandshire. Even though he haunded o’er the tapes tae his superiors, the cop in him couldnae leave it at that, so he alerted yer boy, Inspector Barron, tae the fact aboot the Cardiff connection. By the time they’d goat the transcripts ae the tapes, highlighting the second Welsh call, that pal ae mine hid been promoted tae superintendent and moved oot tae Kowloon, attached tae the Hong Kong Polis.