Bitter Water

by Ferris, Gordon

  I made a few calls to Central Division, where I assumed Sangster was based. But I ran into either a blank wall of ignorance or deliberate obtuseness. My name and my time on the force before the war meant nothing to anyone I talked to. Or maybe it did? Nobody wanted to comment on a hot potato like the savage murder of a prominent official. I got some mawkish guff from the Provost’s office about it being a terrible tragedy and how Mr Morton was irreplaceable. But nothing that gave any insight into who or why.

  I left the newsroom just after six. I had a clear evening, no plans or commitments, the sun was shining, and I felt I’d earned a pint. Or two. As I walked down the narrow slice of Mitchell Lane I became aware of footsteps quickly gaining on me. I glanced back. A tall gangling man was striding towards me. The gap was about twenty yards and closing. His head was up and he was staring straight at me, an intent look on his face, as though he held a knife and had just decided to use it. On me.

  I walked another couple of steps, then stopped, turned and faced him full on. Automatically I found myself crouching slightly and moving on to the balls of my feet. The man came on, his face alight. When he was about ten feet away he stopped dead and stared at me with blue unflinching eyes, the hue accentuated by the shock of red hair.

  ‘Mr Brodie.’ It wasn’t a question. He knew who I was.

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Talk. I need to talk. I have to talk.’

  There was the lilt of the North in his voice. A Highlander. And therefore referred to contemptuously by all we Lowlanders as a Teuchter. I once looked it up in the university library. Probably from the Gaelic: peasant or drink. It was in retaliation to Highlanders calling us Sassenachs, Saxons.

  I sized him up and down. About my height but thin to the point of emaciation, though there was a hint of wiry strength. I thought I could take him. Unless he had that knife and knew how to use it. The face was all bones and angles, the eyes unslept and fevered. Despite the heat he wore leather gloves and a faded ex-army pullover. His trousers had perfect creases but they ran down into frayed cuffs. If this had been a dog I’d have diagnosed rabies. And run for my life.

  ‘So, talk. What do you want?’

  ‘Not here. I need help. We need help. We must have help.’ His voice was rising.

  ‘If it’s money, I could give you a couple of bob.’

  He shook his head. Annoyed. Affronted even. He took a deep breath. ‘I read about you. You and your lawyer woman, Campbell. You tried to save your pal from a hanging.’

  His words stung. It had been over three months ago, in all the papers, but people kept bringing it up. I’d been quietly pulling my life together in London, easing up on the booze, making some inroads into a new career as a freelance journalist when I was summoned north by advocate Samantha Campbell to try to save the life of a man on HMP Barlinnie’s death row. Not just any man, my boyhood pal, Hugh Donovan. We failed. But Sam and I had the bitter satisfaction of proving they’d hanged an innocent man. The coppers had framed Hugh for murder. He’d died on the gallows because it was easier to blame him than do some proper police work.

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘I’ve got a pal. A good soldier. We served together. He’s in trouble. Can. We. Talk?’

  I had a choice. I could turn and walk away and have him jump me. Or I could knock him down and then run for it.

  ‘Can we talk, Major?’

  That got my attention. The press had mentioned my old army rank but only in passing. Someone had paid attention.

  ‘Not here.’ The smell of piss wafted at us down this dark tunnel between the lowering buildings.

  He straightened. ‘First pub? I’ll buy.’

  ‘OK, pal, here’s how it works. You’re going to stand there until I’ve walked ten paces, then you follow, keeping that distance. Fair?’

  He nodded. ‘Fair.’

  I started to back away and when I was two or three steps distant I turned and walked on, trying not to run, trying not to squeeze my back muscles which were tensing in anticipation of the thrown blade. Or bullet. I counted to ten and heard him start. His pace matched mine and we emerged into Buchanan Street. I crossed over, sidestepping the buses, and slid into McCormick Lane. You’re never more than a thrown bottle from a pub in Glasgow. It was a rough dive but this didn’t feel like a social occasion. Besides, I still had my thirst. I pushed through the doors and went to the bar.

  ‘Two pints of heavy please.’

  I heard the door behind me swing and clunk into its frame. He materialised by my side.

  ‘I will get these,’ came the soft, correct lilt. A reminder of some of the men under me in the Seaforths. He was beside me, staring at the barman whose eyes flinched first. From the Highlander’s worn clothes and wild manner I expected him to smell. Just another demobbed soldier prowling the dark lanes and sleeping rough. He didn’t. A small personal triumph, at some cost, I imagine. He was freshly shaven, the nick on the jaw a recent encounter with a blade. Between gloved finger and thumb he held out half a crown for inspection. The barman took it, hit the till and dropped the eight pence change back in the Highlander’s still outstretched hand. He clenched his hand round the coins, opened it and counted the money. I almost said, I’ll get them. But he’d forced this meeting.

  I looked round the pub. Décor: functional brown. Sawdust: fresh. Clientele: seasoned drinkers and domino champions. Atmosphere: growing fug.

  ‘Over there,’ I said and nodded to a dark corner table. We sat. I supped my beer and took out my fags. ‘You’ve bought yourself five minutes,’ I said. ‘Let’s start with your name. You seem to know mine well enough.’

  A twitch ran across his fleshy lips, as though he was stifling a grin.

  ‘Call me Ishmael.’

  I snorted. It was as good a nom de guerre as any, and showed some wit.

  ‘Son of Abraham or hunter of whales?’

  ‘We’re all sons of Abraham,’ he said with a serious shake of his head. ‘It’s my friend I want to talk about.’

  ‘I’m listening, Ishmael.’

  He began. ‘One of my pals is in trouble. Johnson. He was caught stealing. He broke into one of those fine terraced places looking for money or something to sell and they set a bloody Alsatian on him. Ripped his arm and face and kept him there till the police came.’

  I shrugged. ‘Bad luck for your pal Johnson. But good luck for the owner of the house, I’d say.’

  Ishmael’s eyes tightened. The muscles on his jaw bulged. ‘Aye, I suppose it is to you. But here’s the thing. The man was starving. He fought for king and country and now he doesn’t even have a roof over his head. Nor a penny in his pocket. Nor a bit of bread in his mouth.’

  I felt a twinge of shame. It was an everyday story. Men like Ishmael and his pal Johnson helped win the war a year ago and came home to . . . nothing. No job. No family. No future. I’d been only a hair’s breadth away.

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that, but he broke the law.’

  ‘That or starve!’

  ‘We have soup kitchens! Others manage. It’s rotten out there, but we need rules or it’s chaos.’

  His eyes grew cunning. ‘Rules? Is that what you played by? If you’d followed the rules back in April would the police have been shown up for what they are? This city is corrupt.’ He relished the word. ‘The only way to get justice is to take it yourself.’

  He had a point. And he didn’t know the half of it.

  ‘What do you want from me?’

  ‘I want you to ask your fine lawyer lady friend if she’ll defend Johnson. He’s in Turnbull Street. He’ll be in the Sheriff Court on Friday. He’s facing years inside.’

  ‘But he’ll have a defence lawyer. The court will have appointed one if he’s got no money.’

  ‘Their man is a charlatan. He spent ten minutes with Johnson and the useless solicitor. As far as the advocate’s concerned it’s open and shut. He’ll take his pieces of silver, say a few pious words and wave my friend farewell as they cart him off t
o Barlinnie. We need help!’

  I thought about what he was asking me. Thought about Samantha Campbell. And wondered if she’d even take my call, far less take on a case for a mad stranger whose pal, by the sound of it, didn’t stand a chance. Three months back, in the traumatic finale to our search for justice for Hugh Donovan, I thought Sam and I might – quite literally – sail off into the sunset together in our commandeered yacht. Sam’s ill health threw a dose of cold common sense over me. Then, amidst the subsequent and seemingly endless police inquisitions and newspaper frenzy, we decided – well, she decided – we needed some distance and time apart to see how we felt. In short she threw me out. We hadn’t spoken in a fortnight.

  I studied his clenched jaw and his red eyes. ‘Give me one good reason why I should.’

  His voice dropped to whisper. ‘Because you owe him.’

  ‘I’ve never met the man!’

  He sighed. ‘He says he’d heard of you. He was at Saint-Valery. In your old division. But he was taken. Five years as a prisoner of war. He’s served enough time, don’t you think, Major?’

  The name – Saint-Valery-en-Caux – punched me in the midriff. Ten thousand men of the 51st Highland Division, my division, were trapped in that pretty little fishing village just along from Dunkirk in 1940. A few of us slunk away and made it back to England to fight again. Most didn’t.

  ‘Which regiment?’

  ‘Black Watch.’

  Not mine, but still. ‘Poor bastard.’

  ‘Will you help?’ he asked again, this time knowing the answer.

  I found a box and dialled her number. It was now six thirty. She should be home. When I heard her voice, I pushed button A and the coins clattered in.

  ‘Sam? It’s Brodie. How are you?’

  There was a brief lull, then: ‘I thought you were in the huff with me.’

  Just like a woman. ‘Me? You were the one who flung me out!’

  ‘You walked out, Brodie. By mutual agreement.’

  ‘Sam, I’d love to debate this with you some other time, but I have a favour to ask you.’

  ‘You want a bit of red-hot gossip from the courts? An inside track on my latest case? Or you’ve got a poke of chips in your pocket and nobody to share it with?’

  ‘Samantha Campbell, will you just listen for a minute?’

  ‘I’m all ears.’

  I told her about Johnson and the plea from his mad pal. Her response was an echo of mine.

  ‘Give me one good reason why I should, Brodie.’

  It was unfair. I’d prepared my line. ‘Because we didn’t save Hugh.’

  The pause went on for long seconds. ‘That’s playing dirty, Brodie.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Right. If I’m doing this, you’re involved too. Meet me at Turnbull Street with this mad Highlander of yours tomorrow at ten. Tell him he needs to bring Johnson’s solicitor with him. And any paperwork.’

  ‘Thanks, Sam, I’ll . . .’ but the line was already dead and the tuppence change was clattering in the box. I hadn’t told her the mad Highlander’s name in case she thought the whole thing was a prank. A ploy to get to see her again. I wasn’t that desperate.

  I looked through the pane. No ploy. Ishmael was standing staring at me about three feet away. I nodded. His shoulders went down.

  I got to Turnbull Street just before ten. I was jittery. This was likely to be a meeting full of undercurrents and strained emotions. And that was without the presence of the accused man.

  The Highlander was already there and haranguing a sweating man in a three-piece suit, presumably the court-appointed solicitor. The cornered man was clutching a battered briefcase to his chest for protection against the Highlander’s jabbing finger. I caught the tail end of a diatribe about the unfairness of the law. About how the rich could buy their justice and the poor got shafted. I had some sympathy with that view but confined myself to simple introductions. The solicitor – Carmichael – clutched my hand as if I were his long-lost brother.

  I heard heels clicking towards us and turned in time to greet Sam striding forward, ready for battle. Grey suit, glistening white blouse, black briefcase swinging by her side. Her ash-blonde hair combed and clamped to her head like a helmet. She jammed her glasses further up her nose to properly line us up in her sights. From ten feet away she was the dashing, top-flight advocate, completely in control. Up close, as she did the rounds of handshaking, I could see the lines round the eyes. Her make-up was thicker than I recalled it, the cheekbones pronounced.

  She got to me last and held my hand and eyes for a brief second longer than the others.

  ‘Hello, Mr Brodie. I trust you’re well?’

  ‘I’m fine, thank you, Miss Campbell. Thank you for getting involved.’

  ‘I’m not involved yet. Mr Johnson and Mr Carmichael need to appoint me. And I need to square it with the court-appointed advocate.’

  The sweating solicitor jumped in. ‘Oh, I’m sure that will be no problem, Miss Campbell. I had the honour of working with your father when he was Procurator Fiscal.’

  ‘That was a while ago, Mr Carmichael.’

  ‘Nigh on twenty years. I was—’

  ‘This is all verra cosy. But my friend is in court in two days.’

  Sam turned to the Highlander. Through her eyes I saw an unexploded bomb with a hair-trigger fuse.

  ‘This is . . . Ishmael,’ I said.

  She blinked at me, but then smiled at him. ‘Mr Ishmael, is it? I agree. Let’s cut the pleasantries. If Mr Carmichael will allow me, we’ll go and have a wee chat with your friend.’

  She called me later at the newsroom and asked to meet me at George Square. It was past lunchtime and the secretaries and other office workers had reluctantly dragged themselves inside away from the blessed sunshine. We found a bench.

  ‘It’s good to see you, Sam. You’re looking well.’

  ‘Am I?’ She took off her specs and rubbed at the bridge of her nose. ‘God knows why.’

  I studied her profile. In the harsh light, the dark shadows under the eyes were visible. The lines round the mouth sharper. She turned to me.

  ‘What do you see, Brodie? An old woman, past her best?’

  ‘It works for me, Sam,’ I said gently. She turned her head away and slid her glasses back on.

  ‘I’m just tired. Always tired these days, Brodie.’

  ‘What you went through . . .’

  ‘It’s been three months! It’s time I sorted myself out!’

  I let her settle. ‘What about Johnson?’

  ‘He’s for the high jump.’

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘Caught in flagrante. Poor bugger is skin and bone. And stitches. That bloody Alsatian fair chewed him up.’

  ‘Any previous?’

  ‘No. First offence. Well, first time he’s been caught.’

  ‘So he might get off with six months?’

  She shook her head. ‘He killed the dog.’

  ‘Self-defence, surely?’

  ‘With a gun.’

  ‘Idiot!’

  ‘So he’s on trial under Solemn Procedure in the Sheriff Court.’

  ‘Remind me?’

  ‘It’s for serious offences. Jury and judge. He could get five years.’

  ‘Ouch.’

  ‘If he’s lucky. The judge might want to kick it upstairs to the High Court to give him a longer sentence.’

  ‘God, why? Don’t tell me he raped the wife?’

  ‘Not quite. But he chose the wrong house to break into.’

  ‘Who’s?’

  ‘Mairi Baird’s.’

  I shrugged.

  ‘Maiden name McCulloch. Sister of Malcolm McCulloch.’

  ‘The Chief Constable? She wants his head.’

  ‘On a silver platter. With an apple in the mouth.’

  ‘Are you taking the case?’

  ‘Are you always going to be my conscience, Brodie?’

  ‘You don’t need me. Not for that anyway.’
/>   She turned and looked at me, and smiled for the first time since I saw her this morning. ‘I told your pal, Ishmael, I’d have a go, even though it’s not looking good. Is that his real name or is he just a Melville fan?’

  ‘Could be both. How did he take it?’

  ‘He didn’t fall to his knees in gratitude. Just nodded, as though it was my duty. He seems to know about police work.’

  ‘Did you tell him about the special circumstances?’

  She sighed. ‘I mentioned that emotions might be running high among the upper layers of Glasgow society.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘He had a wee fit. I was glad Carmichael was with me. I got a lecture and a bit of scripture thrown at me.’

  ‘What bit?’

  ‘The old “vengeance is mine, saith the Lord” stuff. I don’t think your pal is a’ there, as they say.’

  ‘I think I’d better be there on Friday when the verdict comes through.’

  ‘Can you bring a big stick?’

  We parted; this time she reached up and held my shoulders and I bent to get a peck on the cheek. I smelled her hot skin beneath the smudge of her perfume. I wanted to take her in my arms and hold her and tell her it would get better. Tell her that the trauma would pass. But she’d have pushed me away and accused me of being patronising. When all it was was caring.

  I got back to my desk just in time for Wullie McAllister to grab me.

  ‘C’mon, Brodie. We’ve got a date.’

  ‘Who with?’

  ‘James Sheridan, esquire. Glasgow councillor and Chairman of the Planning Committee. Oor Jimmie has graciously agreed to give us an interview about the vile murder of his pal, Councillor Alec Morton.’

  THREE

  As we walked towards George Square and the council offices, Wullie reminded me about oor Jimmie, Man of the People, sometime philanderer and rabble-rouser. Not that I needed much reminding. Sheridan was one of the larger-than-life characters that Glasgow throws up from time to time whether it needs one or not. Cometh the hour, cometh the fast-talking populist. I watched his rise before the war, continually surprised by voters’ forbearance. They were smitten by his rhetoric and tolerant of his amorous escapades. That’s just oor Jimmie was the forgiving response to the latest impropriety.