When I explained about my new job, he leaned in.
‘Yes! I saw you in all the papers back in April.’ He pointed to the big pile of newsprint on his counter ready to receive his miraculous fish suppers and tattie fritters and soak away the hot dripping and vinegar. ‘I no’ realise then it was my Brodie! Now you write in the Gazette. You are famous, no?’
‘Infamous, possibly. But I’d like to get better known for my writing. I’d like to get a name as a reporter. Not for being the story. The one I’m working on now is—’
‘Ha! Your message is about these men who are. . . prendendo la legge nelle loro proprie mani. How do you say?’
‘Taking the law into their own hands? It’s getting worse, Aldo. I still don’t know who they are, but I’ve found out how they chose their victims.’
‘Oh, but that is how I can help. You called the right man, my friend. It’s no’ true.’
‘What do you mean, it’s not true? They’ve been watching the court results and attacking anyone who gets off.’
‘Then maybe they found a new way.’
‘You what?’
Aldo was a great dramatist. He took his time lighting a cigarette and thanking his blushing bella Sophia for the coffee and taking a sip.
‘Si. La scrittura è sulla parete.’ He pretended to wield a pen in the air.
‘The writing is on the wall? What the hell does that mean, Aldo?’
‘It does not mean anything. It is a statement of fact. Look across the road. The bomb site. Can you see the chalk on the wall of the building?’
I stood and peered over the curtain. A huge gap had been torn in a row of tenements by a bomb. There were words scrawled on the dark wallpaper of the former sitting room. It was too far away to make out. ‘What does it say?’
‘It is an invitation. It was put up a few days ago. They want people to contact them if they know someone is bad. If they have done a bad thing and need punishing.’
‘Christ! I’ll be right back.’
I ran over the road and read it for myself. I wrote it down in my notepad.
Do you know a thief, a rapist, a bully, a wife-beater? Has someone done wrong but not been punished? We will help. Leave their name and address, and details of their crime, at Café Ritz. We will give you justice.
Bringing justice to the streets of Glasgow.
The Glasgow Marshals
It sounded like an advert for a removal company. Which in a sense they were, I suppose. I looked across the road at the Café Ritz. Aldo was peering through the window with a big smile on his face. He shrugged. I went back over the road and we sat down again. This time he laid two envelopes in front of me. I gazed at them, then at Aldo, stupefied at the range of possibilities.
‘Aldo, please tell me it’s not you.’ For a daft moment I thought he’d been harbouring ill feelings against us for being interned.
‘No, no, no. I am not a violent man. I am only the temporary post office.’
‘What?’
‘That’s what they say to me.’
‘Who?’
‘The two men who came in. They asked me to collect their envelopes and give them to them when they come by.’
‘Did they explain what they were up to?’
‘Si, si. It’s OK. In Napoli, this is familiar. The Cosa Nostra looked after such things.’
‘Are they paying you?’
‘A little. For my trouble. One shilling for one envelope. These two came in yesterday.’ He touched the envelopes. ‘So I called you.’
‘Can you describe the men?’
Aldo sucked his teeth and played with his moustache. ‘It’s not easy. They wear caps pulled down. And scarves pulled up. I don’t try to see better. Sometimes it is good not to see too much.’
I was scribbling it all down. ‘Height, accent? Were they local?’
‘The leader one was tall, like you, Brodie. But skinny. His friend was not so big. They were hard men, I thought. Like Mafiosi in Napoli. They were men with uno scopo, un obiettivo.’
‘A purpose. A goal?’
He nodded.
‘What did they sound like? Were they local men?
Aldo shook his head. ‘No. I can tell. I have heard others talk this way. We have all accents round here. One is Irish. The other is from the north.’
‘Highlands?’
‘Si. I think so.’
‘When will they come to collect these?’
He shrugged. ‘Sometime. Soon. They did not say exactly. They say they are watching.’
‘Can I open them?’ I picked the scruffy envelopes up and eased back the gummed edges.
The first note was in a good hand but bad English:
Bert Sloan, 43 Brandon Street.
He steals meet from the market and sells it. Got aff wi it at the court, but everybody kens. Its no that I mind a bit of helping yersel. Everybudy is on the black. Its jist the meet is mingin.
I tried not to laugh. As a summary of everything that was wrong in Britain today, it was hard to beat.
The second was no laughing matter:
Jenny MacIntosh, 22 Lambert Street.
Crime – abortionist.
‘Life for life.’ Exodus 21:23.
I folded the notes and put them back in the envelopes. What should I do? Confiscate them and stop two punishments? Leave them with Aldo and let things unfold – because who was I to interfere? Should I hang around for the next few days to try to catch this pair in the act? And then what? Confront them and get a knife for my troubles? Phone Duncan Todd and line up a police squad to nab them? I reminded myself I was still trying to stay on the outside of events, observing not participating. It didn’t come naturally. I just needed practice. It would make a good story but the last thing I wanted was to bring retribution down on Aldo either from the cops or the vigilantes.
As if reading my thoughts, Aldo asked, ‘I hope this is no trouble for me?’
That made my mind up. This was going in the paper but with all details of place and names omitted. It was a reporter’s privilege, was it not, to claim source confidentiality? Or was that something from a movie with Cary Grant?
‘Aldo, I won’t say where I got this information and I won’t try to interfere with these guys who want you to be a post office. OK?’
He breathed out. ‘OK. I trust you, Brodie. Will this make you famous?’
‘Fame? I’m all for the quiet life, Aldo. I just want to keep my job.’ I smiled. ‘This helps. Thank you, Aldo.’
The tram back to the centre passed the end of Lambert Street and I found myself wondering and worrying about Jenny MacIntosh. Should I warn her about the vicious clype who’d reported her or of the possible retribution coming her way? For one second I had a glimpse into how a god must feel a million times a day. Assuming he was bothered one way or the other. The phrase back-street abortion brought out strong feelings in some folk. I was in two minds. Was it better to force a fourteen-year-old lassie to have her life ruined by an unwanted child or to be given another chance? Some families quietly enfolded the girl to their collective bosom, and the baby became her sister. Others cast mother and child out on the street. Much depended on the motives and skills of the wee ‘auntie’ practising her trade. There was a kind of female masonic order about it – secret rituals and black arts – beyond the ken of men. Maybe it was no business of mine. I was only a reporter.
TWENTY-FOUR
I had to admit, Ishmael and his gang had moved fast. I’d no sooner exposed his modus operandi for victim selection using the court reports than he’d added a whole new dimension to the game. He’d clearly decided the city was full of sinners who’d been getting away with it for too long, and was determined that his brand of Old Testament justice should catch them up.
I also needed to stop thinking about him. As in one man. I was more and more certain that Ishmael had put together a team of like-minded souls. A posse, I suppose. His punishment rate seemed to be creeping up week by week. I wondered which other cafés,
pubs and corner stores were participating in his ‘hunt the sinner’ campaign.
I soon had confirmation of how fast things were spreading. Back at the Gazette I took calls from both Duncan Todd and Isaac within the space of three hours.
Duncan first. ‘I thought you should know, Brodie, one of my snitches tells me these independent lawmen of yours are getting nominations direct from the public-minded citizens of Trongate.’
‘They’re not my lawmen, Duncan. I’m above the battle.’
‘Oh aye. That sounds like you.’
‘Be that as it may. How are they doing it? I’ve just seen an operation over at Gallowgate. Instructions chalked on the wall. Details of transgressions to be left in an envelope at a local café. Name, address and alleged crime.’
‘Same here. But they’re touting for business by word of mouth at the local. You know how fast the grapevine is. Shagged at teatime, shamed by breakfast. They’re passing the word to drop nominations into the Scotia on Stockwell. Then someone picks it up . . .’
‘. . . and justice is dished out.’
‘Exactly. There’s only been one so far. A known wife-beater. Broken arms, nose, and teeth. Between you and me, he was due it. A big bullying bastard. Wish I’d seen it.’
‘Don’t sound so wistful, Dunc. The next one could be innocent.’
‘Oh, I know. But it’s the same gang a’ right. They’d cut off his pinkie. You still not mentioning it in the paper?’
‘It’s not consistent. But mainly I’m now minded to say nothing in public.’
I could almost see Duncan nodding. ‘Differentiates them. We don’t want copycats. Ah’ve not made a thing of it either.’
‘So what are you going to do about it in Central, Duncan? Are you and Sangster talking?’
‘He gets his boy to talk to me.’
‘Murdoch? Sergeant 71?’
‘That’s him. An arse-licker. Anyroad, I’ve put two o’ my guys in plain clothes in the Scotia. No shortage of volunteers. I might do a stint myself. We’ll cover it for a few days and see what happens.’
‘Sounds like fun. Call me if you catch them, Duncan. I’d like a quiet word with their boss. Alone.’
‘Your uninvited guests? I read that too. I’ll bear it in mind, Brodie.’
Then Isaac. ‘Douglas? I may have something for you.’
‘Let me guess. You’ve been asked to gather some envelopes?’
He switched to German. ‘Ach no. Not me. But the bagel shop in Portland Street. You know what’s going on?’
‘The vigilantes are inviting the public to tell them who to punish. They’re using pubs and cafés to collect targets. And now a bagel shop? At least they’re not anti-Semitic.’
‘Small comfort. The word went round the synagogue on Friday like a comet. Everybody was talking about it.’
‘Are any of them tempted to clype on their neighbours?’
‘Oh, everyone says no. They all say it’s immoral. But, Douglas, I tell you, some of our people are a little more, how you say, old book than others. An eye for an eye, you know? I fear it will be used to get even. False accusations.’
I thought again about the woman named in the envelope handed in to Aldo. I should have confiscated it. There was still time.
‘Isaac, it’s what I fear too. Spread the word round your people. The police know about this. They will come down like a ton of bricks on anyone setting up someone else for punishment.’
‘I will, Douglas, I will. But they can do this anonymously . . .’
I phoned Aldo’s café. I was too late. A man had picked up the envelopes an hour ago. I grabbed my jacket and ran for the door with no clear idea of what I was going to do when I got to Lambert Street. Maybe just warn her. Maybe take her to hospital.
I jumped off the tram at the end of the street. It was a nondescript row of blackened terraces. Number 22 had three rows of windows, implying anywhere from two to three houses on each level. Maybe six to eight flats in all. I walked into the entry. It was cooler and dark. The smell of poverty stung my nostrils. There were two front doors facing each other in the entry and a spiral stair winding up from the end. The back green was framed at the end of the entry. Burnt grass and drooping grey sheets on the clothes line.
I peered at the names on each door. Anderson and Murray. No MacIntosh. I started up the concrete stairway. Behind me I heard a door open. It was the Anderson door.
‘If you’re looking for yon wee whore she’s on the tap flair!’
I turned and stepped down into the entry. A sour-faced old woman clung to her door. Her hair was matted and grey, her eyes cloudy and spiteful.
‘I’ve got a message for Mrs MacIntosh. That’s all.’
‘Oh, aye? A message, is it? You’ll have got some lassie in trouble and noo you’re trying to sort it, ur ye? Well, it’s a scandal so it is. The polis should be telt.’
‘Mrs Anderson, is it? We’ve never met but you’re quick to judge. In fact you’re wrong about me. I’m not – as you seem to think – some sort of customer. But I do have a message. Top floor, you say?’
My smart accent stilled her. She stood silently giving me the evil eye, sure I was lying. I turned and walked up to the third floor and found the door. I knocked. Eventually I heard locks going and the door swung open. It opened a crack, on a chain.
‘Who is it? Whit do ye want?’
‘Mrs MacIntosh? I need to warn you.’
‘Whit aboot? You the polis?’
‘No. Look, do you want Dracula’s auntie down the stairs to hear this?’
The door closed. The chain rattled and the door opened wider again. A soft-eyed granny stood there, looking as innocent as a buttercup.
‘Are you Mrs Jenny MacIntosh?’
She looked me over. ‘You’d better come in.’
The flat had two rooms, one a busy kitchen cum living room cum bedroom, the other closed. She led me to a seat by the dead fireplace. There was no sign of wealth. Whatever she did it wasn’t for the money, or maybe the mattress was lumpy.
‘Have you a lassie in trouble? It’s no’ like the man to come.’
‘No, Mrs MacIntosh. It’s not me or a lass that’s in trouble. It’s you.’
Her face buckled. ‘So you are the polis.’
‘No, I’m not. Look, let me spit it out. There’s been an accusation that you perform abortions.’ I raised my hand to stop her. ‘Don’t say anything. I don’t even need to know if it’s true or not. It’s just that someone has accused you—’
‘It’ll be that auld besom doon below. Jeannie Anderson.’
‘Well, whoever it is has given your name to someone else. There’s a strong chance that someone will come here and . . .’
‘And what? Wave a bible at me? Tell me I’m going to hell?’ A firmness had entered her voice. A wary intelligence focused her eyes. ‘I’ve heard it all, Mr . . .’
‘Brodie. I’m with the Gazette. But I’m not going to write this up. I’m not going to make you a story.’
‘Then why are you here, Mr Brodie? What do you care?’
I stared at the floor. It was a good question. ‘I’m not sure. There’re usually two sides. I’m not a judge. But there’s some out there who think they are.’
‘What am I to do? Hide in the coal hole?’ She nodded at the wooden box built into the side of the range.
‘I don’t know, Mrs MacIntosh. Can you stay with friends for a while? Family?’
‘It’s that bad, is it?’
‘The folk who’ve been given your name have been doling out pastings to folk they think have done something. I saw the message left for them.’
‘When? How long have I got?’ She said it calmly, as though she’d been expecting it.
‘I don’t know. This was yesterday. They move fast.’
She nodded. ‘I’ve nowhere to go. I’m no’ running. I’ll manage fine here.’ There was a defiance in her face that brooked no discussion.
She saw me to the door. I stopped and turned. ‘Coul
d I ask something?’
The resignation was back in her face. ‘You want to know why.’
‘You’ve no reason to tell me.’
‘I ken. But you’ve done a decent thing. I had a dochter. She went to . . . somebody. She died through there.’ She indicated the door to the spare room. ‘It’s always the lasses, isn’t it? It’s always gontae happen. I used to be a nurse. It disnae take much to ease ma conscience.’
She closed the door and I went downstairs. The old harridan was waiting.
‘Did you get what ye were after? A’ fixed, are ye?’
I stopped and faced her. ‘Do you go to the kirk?’
She stepped back and folded her arms. ‘Of course!’
I nodded. ‘I thought so.’ I walked out of the entry.
‘Whit do ye mean by that? Whit do you mean, ya cheeky nyaff! Who do you think you are?’ she shouted after me, till I was well down the road.
TWENTY-FIVE
Throughout the last days of August, violence in the tarnished name of justice went up a gear. During the first full week of my mother’s stay in Sam’s house, there were daily examples of punishments: splintered shins for pimps, forced overdoses of their own wares for drug dealers. I was glad to have Mum safe under our roof, where I could see her. Especially when – as expected – the first fatality was announced in the form of a surprising phone call from McAllister. For a normally loquacious man, he could sometimes be too terse for comfort. But it wasn’t the demise of Davie Allardyce; Sam got word from his wife that he was out of the coma. Whether he ever got all his faculties back remained to be seen.
It happened at the beginning of September, in the second week of cosy family breakfasts; Sam, Agnes and me. It was taking some getting used to. I wondered how long this could go on. It seemed a bit unfair on Sam to have all these Brodie squatters in her nice home. Mother was looking well ensconced, as though she’d always lived in a four-storey, four-bedroom Georgian townhouse in the best part of Glasgow. But the pair seemed to have worked out a routine of sorts. Sam would sometimes work from home on a case, and have companionable breaks during the day with my mother. Or if Sam was in court, Mother would sit in the gallery absorbed in the machinations of justice. I asked her at least not to take her knitting. Too tricoteuse by far. Or if Sam went alone to her office she’d come home to find fireplace brasses burnished like the sun.
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