‘Right, right, Brodie. Good thinking. Off you go.’
I got the details from Morag between her pleas to bathe my fevered brow and bandage my hand. I stopped her fussing and ran down the stairs. These new killings made no sense. Either that, or I’d handed back my ability to read character with my major’s crowns. I thought of the expression on the Highlander’s face and couldn’t imagine how he could stand there and lie about Connie and two new murders. On the other hand, maybe I hadn’t met enough maniacs to judge.
It was pouring now and I wished I’d grabbed an umbrella. I pulled my hat down and tugged my mac tighter and splashed through the Trongate, along London Road and into the Green at the McLennan Arch. I could see a black squad car in front of the People’s Palace and a couple of black figures at the rear outside the great glass canopy of the Winter Gardens.
I trudged round to the side door of the conservatory. It was barred by two policeman in dripping waterproofs. Just inside I could see several police huddled together.
‘Hello, Constable, I’m from the Gazette. Can I speak to the officer in charge?’
‘I’m afraid not, sir. I have strict instructions.’
Just then I saw one of the men inside look up. He saw me. Duncan Todd waved and came to the door.
‘It’s all right, officer. Let him in. You’re drookit, Brodie. Come in before you catch your death. We’ve got enough bodies as it is.’
‘Don’t tell me Sangster’s recognised your talents?’
‘As if. He’s been summoned to the Chief Constable. These vigilantes are beginning to piss everybody off. Right to the top. I was the nearest on duty who knew anything about this . . . this madness.’
I walked into the tropics. Great palm trees reached to the glass roof. Cheese plants and tropical ferns crowded together in green profusion. The air was warm and heavy. It made you want to throw all your clothes off and run down to the nearest jungle pool beach and frolic in the warm water. But six policemen would have disapproved.
‘Over here, Brodie. Another one of yours. Or rather, two.’
I shook my hat and squelched after him. ‘I wish folk would stop referring to them as mine, Duncan.’
‘Yours or no’, brace yersel’.’
The other officers were standing or moving about in a wide circle near a clump of greenery. They were working carefully, trying not to disturb the scene too much, but already the ground was flattened. As I drew near I saw a small pool, about fifteen feet across, but I had no inclination now to jump in. The water was green with algae, punctuated with patches of red scum. Besides, it was already occupied. Two bodies languished by the edge where they’d been dragged. There were footprints round them and the ground was freshly damp. Both sets of eyes were staring up at the tree canopy, seemingly terrified by what they’d seen there. Both were naked, their hands bound in front of them, groping fruitlessly at their crotches. Their mouths were open but stuffed, as though they’d been caught halfway through their tea. Blood oozed from their lips and down their chins.
‘Fuck.’
‘Fuck indeed, Brodie.’
‘This is maybe a stupid question, but how did they die, Duncan?’
‘No’ stupid at a’. We’re not sure if they died from drowning, bleeding to death, choking, or maybe sheer bloody shock. Poor bastards.’
‘I was told they were queers. Is that right? How do we know?’
‘Ah could say something flippant and disgusting like they died as they lived, wi’ their mouths fu’. But . . . Constable!’ A uniformed officer came over. ‘Show Mister Brodie exhibit A.’
The constable dug in his breast pocket and produced an envelope. He carefully opened it and pulled out a half sheet of paper. He handed it to Duncan who handed it to me. It read:
To the Glasgow Marshals
There’s a gang of filthy homos on the Green every night after ten. Doing it right there ahint the Winter Gardens. Next to the weans’ play park. This is a God-fearing city, not Sodom and Gomorrah! It’s just wicked and must be stopped. Root them out!
A concerned citizen.
‘Seems like whoever did it took the advice to root them out a wee bit too literally. Any other evidence?’
‘Like alphabets on their foreheads? Fingers missing? And that’s no’ what’s in their gubs. Constable, any sign of other wounds?’
‘No, sir.’
Duncan handed back the piece of paper to his officer and turned back to me.
‘You said “whoever did it”. Interesting choice of words, Brodie. Does that mean you don’t blame the Marshals or you’re just keeping an open mind? Which of course we all are.’
‘I met their leader this morning.’
‘For a wee coffee at Miss Cranston’s? That must have been nice. Walk over here.’
He led me away from the greenery back towards the People’s Palace part of the building. We sat at a table in the echoing café. We broke out the fags. I wished they had a drink licence.
‘Tell me more,’ he asked.
I described the meeting, including hitting Ishmael, including one of the men’s claim to be queer, including my unease about Ishmael’s interest in my war experience.
‘I didnae ken there were that many nancy boys in the world. As far as this guy Ishmael’s concerned, maybe he’s just jealous, Brodie? He’d have found out easy enough from all the stuff in the papers back in April about you and the Slatterys.’
‘You’re right. I’m being paranoiac. The main thing is his claim about not killing Connie, the queer I wrote about yesterday. How it didn’t fit with their nasty habits.’
‘Clipping fingers? Doodling on their brows?’
‘Aye. But that’s no proof the Marshals didn’t. But if they didn’t do it, they were probably up to something criminal at the time and could hardly use that as an alibi. And unless I’m going soft, there was no indication in Ishmael’s face that there was more blood on his hands for this pair. But he might be an awfully good liar. Or a psychopath. He’s certainly no’ a’ there. Thinks he’s doing God’s work. You know the kind.’
‘Aye. Ah sure do.’ He shook his head. ‘Look, Ah think you’re right not to broadcast the exact details of the Marshals’ brutality. Go on leaving it vague. It might just be useful.’
‘Come in handy, you mean?’
‘I do the jokes, Brodie. But you’d better tell me where you met them this morning. Worth a wee shufti.’
We promised to keep in touch and I set off back to the Gazette to distil a column or two of elegant prose from a deepening and widening circle of bloody chaos. As I walked I wondered why I was feeling so down. Then I recognised the emotion: regret. I wanted it to be me leading the investigation back there, not writing about it. Just nostalgia, I suppose. That life was behind me. But through it all, I kept asking myself, if the Marshals didn’t do it, who was killing queers across Glasgow? Why? And who would be next?
THIRTY
Eddie decided to spread the two news stories across two days’ editions.
‘Nae use squandering all your ammo in one go, Brodie. You should ken that.’ He mimicked holding a machine gun and spraying the newsroom. Nobody ducked.
We ran the double murders first, on Wednesday, under the sombre banner: ‘Death in the Winter Gardens’. At Sandy’s urging I began the story in dramatic style:
In its time, Glasgow Green has been the dumb witness to many perverted acts. But surely none more so than the brutal maiming and murder of two alleged homosexuals last night. Their bodies were discovered in the Winter Gardens in a macabre ritual killing . . .
‘Are you sure. Sandy? It sounds like an Agatha Christie.’
‘Exactly! Bread and circuses, Brodie. Bread and circuses.’
‘But this time we can’t put all the gruesome details in, surely? There’ll be an outcry.’
‘Never underestimate our readers’ capacity to lap up pain, Brodie. As long as it’s happening to somebody else. But I agree we’d better choose our words carefully. You’ll need to f
ind a gentler way of saying that they’d been found with their cocks in their mouths.’
‘Dismembered appendages?’
‘Aye, that’ll do nicely.’
‘I was joking . . .’
‘Maybe you’re right. Too many syllables. You’ll think of something.’ He turned to leave. I poised my fingers over the keys and made a mental note to bring in my Thesaurus.
Sandy pirouetted back. ‘Oh, Brodie. Just a wee thing. And no’ really important. Do you happen to ken if it was their ane – appendages? I mean, no, of course. How would you? Not unless they were different, you ken, colours . . .’
I stared at his retreating back wondering if I’d made another wrong choice of career.
I rolled the foolscap and carbons through the Imperial. Of course by running the two pieces in this order, it meant that I wasn’t yet mentioning my meeting with the Marshals. Which in turn meant not raising any doubt about the Marshals’ guilt, at least of these killings. And there was doubt, at least in my own mind. But as Eddie pointed out, that’s not what the public wanted to hear. And why would you believe that madmen would have such a fine and unwavering moral compass as to stop at finger removal? Eddie was also of the opinion that the Marshal who’d confessed to being homosexual was lying.
‘There’s no’ that many about, Brodie. Too big an effin’ coincidence for my liking.’
We could have run with an evening edition, a special, but we decided to keep up the daily momentum and save it for Thursday. Eddie even talked about running a Saturday paper to keep the story simmering over the weekend, but the overtime would have cost too much. All the rival papers had a front page on the twin killings. Some of the headlines made ours look like a kirk magazine. ‘Slaughter of the Queers’, ran one. ‘Homos Hacked to Death’, ran another. All of them blamed the Marshals.
It was certainly selling newsprint. The corner boys were hoarse, and the Gazette’s directors were purring, we heard, but demanding ever more eye-popping scoops. Eddie was wandering around dispensing unremitting zeal and excitement. Summer had returned and the newsroom was sweltering again. It was wearing. Only McAllister was conspicuous by his absence. Until he suddenly popped up just before noon. He came to my corner.
‘Let me buy you a beer, Brodie. We need to have words.’
As we emerged into the warm September sun I naturally turned towards Ross’s, McAllister’s usual haunt. Wullie grabbed my arm and we set off in the opposite direction. We cut across West Nile Street, ploughed up Blythswood Hill, and stood panting on West George Street. We looked back down at the undulating criss-cross of Georgian streets. I pulled out my hankie and wiped my brow.
‘I didn’t have you down as a mountaineer, Wullie.’
‘We could do wi’ some o’ they wee tram cars they have in San Francisco,’ he gasped. ‘Come on. We’re earning that pint.’
We struck west again along Bath Street. Along the way we talked about the vigilante story and how it was unfolding, but Wullie refused to be drawn on his own investigations into the Morton murder. The matter had sunk from the public mind except for the odd newspaper castigation of the police for making zero progress. The Record had an interview with poor Mrs Morton. She seemed in a daze, uncomprehending and bereft. Wullie himself had written nothing lately about the murder. I assumed he wanted to fill me in on the latest.
We pressed on downhill, past the New Mitchell library, then down a side street. Halfway along was an unprepossessing pub: the Sodger’s Lament, with a badly painted picture of a tartan-clad warrior lying, dying, on some distant battlefield. He was clutching a thistle in his pale hand to hammer home the point that this was a Scottish soldier. As if the spelling wasn’t enough.
‘This looks fun, Wullie.’
‘It’s quiet. That’s the main thing. And the beer’s no’ wattered.’
We pushed inside. Coming in from the sun, we felt we’d entered a coal hole. As my eyes adjusted I could make out a big man standing behind the bar, smoking. He nodded at Wullie. ‘Usual?’
‘Make it two, Alec. We’re through here.’ He walked to the left of the bar and pushed through into the saloon. It was only big enough for two small tables. Six drinkers would crowd it. The walls were brown, the ceiling brown, the fading photos of shipyards were brown. A brown study. Two pints of heavy materialised. We sat. Wullie did his usual sleight of hand and a roll-up appeared. We supped our beer, lit up and then he started.
‘I’ve had a breakthrough, Brodie.’
I nodded and waited.
Wullie now had names. Names of big-time developers operating as a cartel to corner the market in development sites and building contracts. The name of a senior councillor who was acting as the conduit for dirty money. It was his job to sprinkle cash among his fellow flexible officials. Fairy dust to grease the passage of certain proposals and specific contracts.
‘No guesses who the councillor is . . .’ Wullie raised his nicotine-stained finger to his nicotine-stained mouth. He pulled out his notebook, opened it and showed me the name he’d written. James Sheridan. It was underlined.
‘What’s your proof?’
‘Mind I said his long-suffering wife, Elsie, was loyalty incarnate? Well, even she’s had enough. Three weeks back, just after we had our wee talk with him and they’d found Morton with his head in cement, our man set up a wee nest for himself with some floozy from Edinburgh. Installed her in a nice flat in Hyndland where she can flaunt her Athenian airs and graces.’
‘And you’re hearing this from Elsie Sheridan?’
‘The fury of a woman scorned.’ Wullie shook his head. ‘I’ve met her once now. This’ll be the second.’
‘What! You mean she’s coming here? Does she know I’ll be here? Why do you want me involved?’
‘Yes and yes. And I want you to listen in, take notes, and to be another link in this story. As I said before. Just in case.’
‘In case . . .?’
‘A link gets broken. And here she is.’
THIRTY-ONE
A tiny woman stood in the now opened doorway. She was wearing a headscarf and a buttoned raincoat despite how warm it was outside. Her eyes were darting between McAllister and me. We got to our feet.
‘Hello, Elsie. Come ben. Take a seat. This is Douglas Brodie. He answers to Brodie.’
‘Hello, Mrs Sheridan.’
‘Ah’m Elsie, jist Elsie.’
‘What’ll you have, Elsie?’ asked Wullie.
‘Port and lemon.’
Her voice was like sand running off velvet, rough but enticing. The product of a lifetime of marinating her tonsils in fortified wine and fags. She sat down opposite me and took off her scarf. She didn’t look around so I assumed this was where she’d met McAllister before. Not that there was much to see. Elsie herself looked to be in her late forties. Pretty dark eyes, and hair now a denser black than the original. Plucked and redrawn black curves over her eyes. Sweet bow mouth and perky nose. Heavy make-up just about hiding crows’ feet. I realised I’d seen her photo alongside her man. Her former man, by the sound of it.
She took off her coat and sat down again in a summer frock of pink and red roses. Her too-strong perfume quickly filled the tiny space. Wullie stepped back from the counter and plonked down a glass. She took a swig, delved in her handbag for cigarettes and I lit her.
‘Thanks for coming Elsie,’ he said.
‘It’s a’ right. It needs dain’.’
Her accent was local. Deeper and more nasal than her petite form and gamine face suggested. Hedy Lamarr plays Glesga fishwife.
‘Why don’t we start with you telling Brodie here what you telt me last time?’
Elsie polished off her drink and indicated her vocal cords required more lubrication. Wullie got her another. Then she seemed ready.
‘Whit’s gontae happen? You’se gontae put a’ this in the paper?’
Wullie responded. ‘Eventually, Elsie. But the only bit that we’ll be putting in to begin with is about Jimmie’s new-found wealth. I kn
ow you’ve got other information which will come out in due course. But we need more hard evidence otherwise they’ll sue my erse off.’
‘We wouldnae want that, Wullie, would we? Ye need yer erse. Somewhere to hing yer legs frae.’ Her cackle would have emptied the Citizen’s Theatre. Elsie had a sense of humour. I supposed she’d needed it.
I asked her, ‘So tell us about Jimmie going up in the world. You told Wullie that he’s come into money. Do you know where he got it?’
‘Aye, I ken fine. He’s been wining and dining wi’ some big spenders for months. Rogano’s, can you believe it? Never took me.’
‘And who are these big spenders?’ I asked.
‘Wait, Elsie. Don’t say it out loud. Just write it down here.’ McAllister placed his pad in front of her and gave her his pencil.’
In a slow, schoolgirl hand, as though she was being tested, and with tongue sticking out, Elsie wrote three names: Kenneth Rankin, Tom Fowler and Colin Maxwell. She didn’t have to spell out any more. These names were synonymous with some of the biggest deals in Glasgow’s history. Big men. Each reputed to be worth millions. Rankin had made it in the shipyards and then the ammunition factories. Fowler’s wealth was in shipping. He was said to have tripled the already sizeable fortune handed down by his granddaddy from the slave trade. Maxwell was said to own half of the West End and a fair chunk of land east of Loch Lomond in the Forest of Ard. Rich company for a jumped-up Glasgow councillor to keep.
‘This is all suspicious stuff, Elsie, but circumstantial,’ I said. Her eyebrows went up.
Wullie interpreted. ‘What Brodie is saying is, so what? You cannae hang a man for having expensive friends. Even in Glasgow.’
‘Oh, Ah ken that. But after these nichts oot, Jimmie – when he was still wi’ me – would come rolling hame, fu’ as a monkey with French brandy and tell me how clever he was. How he’d be showing a’ the doubters. How he was gontae come out on top.’
Bitter Water Page 17