The Quaker

by Liam McIlvanney

  The man held up two fingers to match his words, smirking, holding McCormack’s gaze.

  McCormack felt the flood of rage. He drew back his foot but stilled it in time. ‘You think you know me? Fuckface. You know who I am?’ His hand was fumbling in his jacket pocket and he yanked it out, the warrant card, flipped it open and thrust it at the man’s face.

  The man didn’t give it a glance. ‘You’re a polis,’ he said. ‘An upholder of the law. Were you upholding the law in the Queen’s Park last Tuesday night, Detective? Do you uphold the law on Glasgow Green?’

  McCormack felt the world buckle, the red tenements opposite seemed to nod down towards him and then right themselves. He staggered back from where the skinny man sprawled in triumph, back into the shade of St Peter’s. The arm with the warrant card dropped to his side.

  The man was grinning. He sat up, tugged on the lapels of his jacket. ‘Maybe we should go someplace to talk.’

  He reached up a hand. McCormack almost stooped to take it but checked himself, turned on his heel and waited at the bottom of the steps. In his own sweet time the man picked himself up. ‘There’s a café down the road,’ McCormack said, walking off.

  ‘You don’t remember me?’ The man was stirring his tea, a wicked shine in his bloodshot eyes. ‘Oh Jesus, relax! It’s not that. But we have met before.’

  McCormack’s coffee lay untouched on the waxy tablecloth. He was having trouble focusing on the man’s words. This was the end. It was the end of the Quaker business. It was the end of his life as a cop. He saw it all, the whole dreary process unfolding. The man across from him giving his statement. McCormack’s colleagues seeking corroboration from men they picked up in Queen’s Park, Glasgow Green. The formality of the disciplinary hearing. He’d be thrown out. Probably prosecuted. Made an example of. The talk of the Park Bar, the Highlanders Institute, every living room and street corner in Ballachulish.

  What did the man want? Was he asking for money? But money would just prolong it. A City of Glasgow detective getting blackmailed by some Partick ned. Better to end it now. There was a nugget of ice in McCormack’s stomach but already it was being buoyed up, swamped, dissolved in a rushing flood of relief. He could stop pretending. He could stop kidding on he was one of the lads. But the man was still talking. Didn’t he remember him? How would he remember him?

  ‘In the Criterion Bar,’ the man was saying. The zinc counter of the café was behind the man’s shoulder and something flared in McCormack’s memory. ‘You and your mate. The fat one. The nasty fucker.’

  The man’s eyes slid to the side then, as the bell chimed on the café door. He rubbed his nose with two fingers and, in that gesture, it came back to McCormack: the steel urinal, the man’s scared face and shifty eyes. It was the nonce they’d huckled in Shettleston.

  The thin man saw the recognition in McCormack’s eyes. ‘That’s right. You lifted me. You and the fat cunt. I thought I knew your face, when you huckled me in that pub. Thought I’d maybe seen you on the Green. But I couldn’t be sure. And then I saw you last week in Queen’s Park, got a good look at your face. And then I knew. Kilgour’s the name.’

  That was it. Kilgour. One of the deviants rousted by Goldie during that terrible late shift.

  ‘You were wrong, though, eh? About the Quaker. It wasnae me.’

  ‘You think you can blackmail me? Is this your angle? You want money?’

  ‘Oh, no. It wasnae me,’ Kilgour went on, as if he hadn’t heard. ‘Thing is, it’s not him either. The guy you’ve got, the peterman. This boy Paton. He’s not the Quaker.’

  McCormack’s voice tightened. ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘And you fucking know it, don’t you? Look at you. You know it’s not him.’

  ‘What makes you say that?’

  Kilgour was turning the salt-cellar over in his hands, dribbling the grains on to the tabletop. He drew a cross in the spilled salt with his fingertip and looked up into McCormack’s eyes.

  ‘Because I’ve seen him.’ Kilgour nodded. ‘I’ve seen the Quaker.’

  McCormack took the salt-cellar out of Kilgour’s hand, set it down beside the pepper and the vinegar in its little wire tray.

  ‘What do you mean you’ve seen him? Seen him when?’

  ‘The night I got done for attacking that lassie. It was him that did it. The Quaker.’ Kilgour grimaced. ‘I told youse all this at the time. I was walking home and I saw this couple. On the waste ground by the empty flats. Shagging. Or I thought they were shagging. But you could see it wasn’t right, she was struggling, her legs kicking out from under the bloke. I shouted something and started to cross. The bloke stood up, fastening himself. He looked round at me and got off his mark, away down Madras Street.’

  Kilgour paused, his eyes tracking back and forth, replaying the scene. ‘The lassie was hurt. She was spluttering, retching for air. He’d been choking her with her tights, they were still tied round her throat. I was stood there waiting to help. Then somebody jumped me and the squad car screamed up and the polis piled out. I tried to tell them. I thought she would set them right but she was half-dead, she was all fucked up. She didn’t know if it was New Year or New York.’

  ‘And the guy,’ McCormack said. ‘The guy who attacked her.’

  ‘Big.’ Kilgour spread his arms. ‘A back like a sideboard. Big meaty bloke. And dark. His hair was black as molasses. It’s not the guy you’ve got.’

  McCormack felt the thrill of vindication. He’d been right. Even if nothing came of it, even if Paton was wrongly convicted and the Quaker stayed at large: he’d been right. And Cochrane, Levein and the others were wrong.

  ‘And you told all this at the time?’ McCormack said.

  ‘What do you think? Of course I did.’

  ‘But they nailed you,’ he said slowly, speaking almost to himself. ‘You did time.’

  ‘They said I’d been with her all night. I’d picked her up at the Barrowland. Some fucker testified he’d seen me at the dance hall.’

  ‘Did you not have an alibi? Where had you been?’

  Kilgour pursed his lips and looked sourly, steadily at him. McCormack thought back to the case. He’d read the man’s file. The attack took place on a patch of waste ground near Mill Street in Bridgeton. Late at night. Mill Street. Two hundred yards from the Green.

  ‘Where do you think I’d been?’ Kilgour said softly. ‘I’m like you, polis. I take my pleasures where I can.’

  McCormack slumped back in his chair. His brain was spooling ahead, processing the new information. Paton wasn’t the Quaker. We knew that anyway. Kilgour’s black-haired bruiser was the Quaker: waste ground, Bridgeton, the ligature. But if the Quaker turned out to be a stocky man with blue-black hair, why had the witnesses pegged him as slim and fair? Was Nancy Scullion wrong? But then another question – more urgent than these – floated up to the top of his mind. He stared at Kilgour.

  ‘So what do you want?’ McCormack asked him.

  ‘I want to get him,’ Kilgour said simply. ‘I want to nail the fucker. I want to help.’

  40

  ‘Oh for Jesus’ sake.’ McCormack stood in the bright reception hall of Saughton Prison. He turned his back on the screw behind the desk, turned to face him again. ‘You mean he’s been transferred to Barlinnie?’

  He’d driven through that morning from Glasgow. Another night of sustained cogitation on the case had yielded nothing more inspiring in the way of practical gambits than giving Bobby Stokes another go. The key, McCormack had decided, after a fourth large Springbank, was to find out who arranged the safe house for Paton. Stokes was the go-between, but someone else had set it up. Whoever set up the house was responsible for framing Paton. It was time to put pressure on Stokes. If you couldn’t get a nyaff like Bobby Stokes to knuckle under, it was time to book your ticket. So he’d signed out a Flying Squad Velox and motored through to Edinburgh. Only now, as the cheerful screw was happy to confirm, the journey had been wasted. Stokes was gone.

 
; ‘No,’ the screw said. ‘I mean he’s been released.’

  ‘Like fuck he’s been released. Robert Stokes, this is. Remand prisoner. The Glendinnings thing.’

  ‘I know who Bobby Stokes is. We let him go this morning. Do you people not talk to each other?’

  They were enjoying this, the East Coast screws, grinning at the floor-show, Angry Man from the West. He asked to see the governor.

  ‘You think he’s a wizard or something? Think he’s gonnae magic him back?’

  ‘Just get me to the fucking governor.’

  A smirking screw walked him through the clicks and bangs, the clanging doors, the landings, the corridors. After the endless evil shine of cold white tiles, the governor’s office was nicely subdued, lots of wood and dark green leather.

  The governor was flustered, a small man in a greenish suit, rising from his chair with a swipe of his hand across an oily comb-over. ‘I’m afraid you’ll have to take that up with the relevant— I mean, we can’t be held responsible if you can’t get your … Anyway. Look: will you sit down, Inspector …?’

  ‘McCormack. I’ll stand. Who authorized the release?’

  ‘Surely, if you’ve come from Glasgow …’

  ‘Who signed the docket?’

  The governor couldn’t hold McCormack’s stare. He sucked his cheeks and shook his head briskly. There was a sheaf of papers in his out-tray and he flicked through them viciously. He stopped with an index finger on one sheet and ran his tongue along his upper teeth. ‘The authorizing officer was DCI Flett, but if you think—’

  McCormack was off, clattering out of the office, striding down the corridor with the screw trotting at his heels.

  All the way back to Glasgow McCormack kept the Velox at ninety, the tendons standing out in his forearms. He used the siren when he hit the Gallowgate. He nearly wrenched the handbrake off when he parked it in St Andrew’s Street. Flett was out of his chair and halfway round the desk before McCormack had burst through his door.

  ‘I know, I know!’ Flett’s hands were hoisted, stick-up style. ‘I know what you’re going to say. You’re right. But, Jesus, you were out the door before I could stop you.’

  ‘You signed the fucking docket! You let the bastard go!’

  ‘Duncan! Duncan! Listen to me.’

  ‘He’s the key to the Quaker. He knows who set Paton up. The whole thing hinges on him. And you let him walk?’

  ‘No option, Duncan. There’s a bigger picture here. Sit down, son.’

  ‘Bigger than the Quaker?’

  ‘Sit down, McCormack. Sit the fuck down!’

  McCormack pulled the plastic chair out from Flett’s desk, smacked it down on its four legs, dropped into it, crossed his arms. Flett took small steps to the door and closed it very gently. He walked back round the desk and took his seat.

  ‘It’s a bastard, Duncan. I know. But this is out of my hands.’ Flett dropped his voice. ‘Stokes is working for someone. OK? They’re putting something together. They’re at a delicate stage, blah-di-blah. You’ve done it yourself, Dunc. You know how it goes.’

  ‘He’s somebody’s tout?’

  ‘He’s somebody’s tout.’

  McCormack nodded, sucked in his bottom lip. ‘Whose?’

  ‘Duncan. Be your age. You know I can’t—’

  ‘What are they working on? Have they found the fucking Ripper? Have they solved the Appin Murder? Because this is the Quaker I’m working on.’

  Flett gave a little pout, looked at the desk. ‘There’s a school of thought, DI McCormack. There’s a school of thought that the Quaker case has already been solved.’

  ‘Right. But not if you’ve got anything to do with it. Not if it’s up to you. On you go, McCormack. Solve this case. Bring it home. Except, see this guy over here? The guy who knows the one bit of information that could help you actually solve the fucking thing? Yeah, you cannae talk to him. But carry on.’

  The phone rang on Flett’s desk. He held McCormack’s gaze while he dealt with the call – Yes; yes; fine – and dropped the handset on to the receiver.

  ‘Well, it all looks pretty simple then. If you can’t do it without Stokes you can’t do it. You can get back to proper police work. Start pulling your weight around here for a change.’

  ‘At least tell me what they’re doing with Stokes. The Glendinnings thing’s solved. Is it McGlashan? Are they going after McGlashan?’ McCormack clapped his chest. ‘Then bring me in. I can help.’

  ‘Aye. You can help by leaving Stokes alone.’

  ‘I know more about McGlashan than anyone. I’ll help them nail him. I just need to talk to Stokes first. I bring him in for an hour, sir. Half an hour.’

  The chair groaned as Flett shifted position. ‘Jesus. Can I send you back to Cochrane already? Let him get his head nipped. Leave. Bobby. Stokes. The fuck. Alone. All right? Is that clear enough? Don’t go near him. If you can finish this thing without him, do it. And do it fucking soon. If you can’t, then for Christ sake let it lie.’

  McCormack blew out some air, pushed a hand through his hair. ‘Right. I’ll leave Stokes be. I’ll find a way.’

  He stood up to go.

  ‘You used to be one of the easy ones,’ Flett said. ‘Did your job. No drama. No hysterics. Remember that? Back in the glory days of, what, last month. The fuck happened?’

  ‘The Quaker,’ McCormack said. ‘The Quaker happened.’

  On the way home that evening McCormack was riding the subway, rattling back to Partick. The train was entering a station when a sour spoor of perfume snagged him. Something told him this scent was important; he knew it without knowing why. He turned to see a woman pushing through to the doors as the train slowed. He plunged after her, panicking, working his shoulders through the tuts and gasps in the close-packed carriage and made it on to the platform just in time to see her white woollen coat swaying up the stairwell into the gloom. He took the stairs three at a time until he was at her shoulder, breathing deeply, sucking down the bitter scent. At the subway entrance she cast a jerky sideward glance at him and scuttled off down Byres Road but by then he had it. He stood stock still on the Byres Road pavement and closed his eyes. He was back in the foyer of the Barrowland, listening to Barbara Bell, smelling her acrid perfume and watching, over her shoulder, the queue at the payphone.

  The payphone.

  He’d been out to use the phone. That’s what he’d been doing, the Quaker, when he left the table at the Barrowland that night. He’d been phoning someone. And McCormack remembered now the manager’s statement, the fracas that night at the payphone, a patron had kicked up a fuss when a caller wouldn’t get off the phone. Who could he be phoning with such urgency? A cab? A wife or girlfriend waiting at home? An accomplice? And the broad back of a man he’d never seen, a man conjured up by the discredited statement of a convicted nonce, rose up in McCormack’s mind. The black-haired, thick-set man from Robert Kilgour’s story. And he knew now why they hadn’t caught him. The Quaker wasn’t one man but two. It was the fair-haired man who set them up; the black-haired man who killed them.

  McCormack looked at his watch. It was after six. Nancy Scullion would be home from work. He walked down to Tennent’s Bar and ordered a Guinness. He took his change from the barman and carried his pint down to the end of the horseshoe-shaped bar, where the payphone was mounted to the wall. He dialled Nancy’s number. There was an outsize whisky bottle on the bar beside the payphone, with a bronze-edged slot in the neck. The bottle was half-full of coins and banknotes. The label on the bottle said ‘Deprived Children’s Annual Day Out’.

  Nancy was home. She agreed to meet McCormack in the tearoom at the top of Sauchiehall Street in half an hour. McCormack swirled the last of his Guinness, downed it. He signalled the barman for another.

  ‘I don’t know.’ Nancy Scullion tilted her head, gazing into the middle distance. ‘Maybe. I’m not sure. Is it important? It’s important, isn’t it?’

  ‘He never mentioned a call? He never asked you for
change?’

  Nancy frowned. ‘I remember him counting his change at one point, I can picture him stood there by the table. But I don’t know if it was then or later. Anyway, I just assumed he was going for cigarettes.’

  The tearoom was quiet. The waitress was bearing down on their table to take their order.

  ‘Two teas,’ McCormack called, lifting a hand to ward her off. The waitress turned on her heel without a word. ‘But he already had cigarettes. You said in your statement that he gave you a cigarette when you first sat down.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Was it a full packet?’

  ‘I don’t – actually I think, yeah. It was. I remember I had to hold the packet with one hand and pull the cigarette loose.’

  ‘So he could have been going for the phone.’

  ‘I suppose.’

  ‘What’s funny?’

  She was grinning, slyly. ‘No, it’s just. It’s the way you say things. It’s nice. Could haff been.’

  McCormack smiled tightly. He thought once again how much easier this would be if he could play along, if he knew how to flirt.

  ‘So you get in the taxi with him at the end of the night. But this is the thing: did he know beforehand where you lived? Did he know that Marion lived in Earl Street? Had you talked about it earlier in the evening?’

  She gave McCormack a look of theatrical sincerity. ‘Look, I wish I could help you, Duncan. I really do. But I just don’t know. I don’t think we spoke about it but I don’t remember. And maybe Marion told him, when they were dancing. I’m sorry. I know it’s important.’

  McCormack nodded. She looked as if she might be about to reach out and clasp his wrist. He leaned back to let the waitress put down the teas. ‘You’ve been a great help,’ he said, and the waitress looked at him sharply.

  Robert Kilgour was replacing the nameplate on his front door when McCormack stepped out of the lift. Kilgour straightened up, a screwdriver dangling from his left hand. He looked at McCormack and he looked at the lift.