‘And was this a sign from God?’ I needed to watch my sarcasm. It tended to fire folk up.
A sneer shaped his wet mouth. ‘Aye, blaspheme if you want to. But where do you think I got the idea from? The papers were full of it. Full of stories about you, Brodie. About how you’d shone a light on the corruption in the legal system. The stink and filth at the heart of our useless police service. How could we stand back and let this tidal wave of filth and depravity drown us all?’
‘They’re not all bad. And Barlinnie is full to the brim. You can hardly say people are getting away with – well – murder.’
‘You think not? It’s broken! The wheels have come off. Sin is triumphing, everywhere you look. We learned how you brought down retribution on the murderers and child-abusers in the Slattery clan.’ He paused for effect. ‘You make a good role model, Brodie!’
It was a good shot. It drove straight to the heart of my earlier ambivalence about this whole damned vigilante escapade. I flung my hands up in the air.
‘I never asked anyone to follow me! I was trying to save the life of my friend. You’re just looking for an excuse, Drummond.’
He went still. His voice fell. ‘No. An example.’
THIRTY-NINE
I stepped back. I looked past his head to the park beyond, to normal folk going about their Sunday, kids running around wild. We all needed someone to look up to, someone to set the pattern. Finally, calmer, I broke the long silence. ‘What are we here for, Drummond? What do you want from us? They have confessionals if you just want it off your chest. A good chapel-going man like you.’
‘I’m not! I’m Free Church of Scotland.’
‘The Wee Frees? No wonder you’re so holy. But what about the quotes from the Apochrypha? They’re not in your bible.’
Drummond reached behind and under his jumper. He brought out a thin, battered book. It was clearly a bible. He looked uncomfortable.
‘It was the only one I could get hold of. From a Catholic chaplain. He died on the long march. It served us well.’
I asked again, softly, ‘What do you want?’
‘You to believe we didn’t kill anyone. Murder was never part of our plan.’
‘Not even queers?’ I scoffed.
‘There’s no need for killing. You met one of my men. With God’s will, and the man’s faith, I brought him back into the fold. It’s a choice.’
‘Whether he wants it or not, eh? But you left a good man at death’s door. Davie Allardyce nearly died. He might never recover properly. A family smashed to bits. It was only chance that you’ve avoided a murder charge!’
He nodded. ‘We might have hit him too hard.’ He didn’t seem that contrite.
‘And what about the two women you tested for adultery? Who gave you the moral authority? One of them died and the other is on the streets. Bitter water indeed!’
‘It is written.’ He waved the bible at me.
‘In blood! Like so much of the Good Book. Which reminds me. What did you do with Jenny MacIntosh?’
He seemed to smirk. ‘The abortionist? We prayed with her. We made her join us in prayer and in admitting her sins. She sought pardon from the Lord.’
‘You smug bully, you!’
At that moment I didn’t know whether I hated this man more for the appalling physical damage he’d done to the Dochertys and Allardyces of this world, or for forcing that poor wee woman to go down on her knees and beg for forgiveness from Drummond’s fickle and irascible God.
‘Another sinner brought to the light, eh? Anyway, that’s not the point. You’re on the hook for three murders. How can you prove you didn’t do it? Having a poof on your team won’t cut ice with a jury. You’ll need a good lawyer . . .’
We both turned and looked at Sam, who had been sitting, legs neatly crossed, quietly smoking and watching the two fighting cocks bristle and strut in front of her. She leisurely took a puff and lowered her hand. She blew the smoke out and recrossed her legs. They were nice legs.
‘Let me see if I understand this, Mister Drummond? You break into my house, hold me and Brodie hostage at gunpoint, threaten us and generally act like a hoodlum. You nearly kill a good friend of mine. And now you’d like me to defend you against a triple murder charge? Is that a fair summary?’
‘I’m not asking for your help.’ He was every inch the stuck-up Highlander. The sort that would lead his men into battle against English cannon waving his sporran at them.
‘Good. Because you can whistle for it as far as I’m concerned.’
I cut in. ‘What exactly were you expecting, Drummond? That I’d write a column for the Gazette that says, I’ve met this man. He’s a Highland chentleman. He gave me his word. He’s no killer. And the polis slap me on the back and say, That’s fine, Brodie. We trust you. Someone else clearly did this, and your noble pal is in the clear. Give him our best wishes and tell him to continue with his vigilante work. In fact, more power to his elbow.’
Drummond faced me, his gaze intense and unwavering. ‘I don’t know why these men were murdered. But it is not our work. I told you before we left certain signs on the guilty. Calling cards, you said. But you’ve never spelled it out in any of your articles.’
‘Because the infirmaries would be full of folk with bandaged fingers and scarred faces. Copycats.’
He exhaled. ‘I know. I was police too. But the whole Glasgow force is hunting us! Meantime, the guilty men are sitting there laughing. It’s time you went public.’
‘And say what? What would convince anyone?’
‘In all your reports, you didn’t mention why we took a finger or left a scar. The people we punished are already followers of Satan. Now they can be recognised.’
He opened his bible near the end. I could see jagged scribbles and underlined passages on the pages. He read aloud:
‘Satan . . . causeth all, both small and great, rich and poor, free and bond, to receive a mark in their right hand, or in their foreheads . . . the mark, or the name of the beast, or the number of his name.’
Drummond paused for effect. ‘Tell them we are identifying the wicked. We are enforcing God’s commandments.’
FORTY
We watched him march back through the arch and out of the park. He kept a good stiff back, as though he assumed I’d be judging his parade-ground manners.
‘The Bible’s a dangerous book,’ I said.
‘For a lost soul.’
‘Lost marbles.’
‘Is it going to help to quote Revelations at your readers?’
‘It proves nothing. Except that Drummond is off his head. Have you any idea how many interpretations of that passage there are likely to be?’
‘Six hundred and sixty-six?’
‘At least. And when you think about the mutilations to the three homosexuals you can easily make the case that the Marshals were complying with the Good Book. But with more enthusiasm. In their twisted minds, punishments fitting the crime. But you’re the lawyer. What do you think?
‘If these guys are caught, they’re for the high jump. Or rather the long drop.’
We were in no hurry now. We walked away from the arch down to the fountain, then followed the riverside path east until we did a full loop of the Green. We didn’t say much. The sun was hidden by tumbling clouds. The air felt wet and hot like the steam room at the Western Baths Club. We drove back to the house talking about the big ham salad we felt we’d earned. But we soon lost our appetite.
Sitting on the front step surrounded by a confetti of fag ends, was McAllister. He rose as we drew up and got out. ‘I was beginning to think you’d eloped, Brodie.’
‘Without asking your permission, Wullie? Before you say anything else that will get us both into trouble, I’d better make the introductions.’
Hands were duly shaken, and then I said, ‘Are you here to find out how we got on last night among Glasgow high society? There’s not much to tell. The champagne was too dry. The petits fours too petits.’
‘Naw, that’ll keep.’
‘Just a social call, then?’
‘Not very, Brodie. Not very. I assume by your general air of insouciance that you haven’t heard.’
‘Heard what?’
‘About Sheridan. Him and his – pardon my French, Miss Campbell – whore.’
My stomach knotted up. ‘Get on with it, Wullie.’
‘Dead. Drowned. They were found this morning.’
Sam spoke up. ‘You’d better come inside.’
We sat round the kitchen table nursing glasses of lemonade while McAllister talked.
‘I got a call from one of my polis contacts this morning. You know the pier at Balloch? Seems an early-morning fisherman found a green Morris Eight lying at the bottom of Loch Lomond. Next to the Princess May.’
‘Sheridan’s?’
Aye, and him in it, apparently. And his floozy. They got a police diver to take a look. The pair of them were floating inside the car, last I heard.’
‘Suicide?’
‘At first glance.’
‘Polis saying the publicity drove them to it?’
‘Their first deduction.’
‘Except?’
‘Jimmie Sheridan’s ego. If ever a man could soak up public humiliation and chastisement and make it into badge of honour, it’s Sheridan. This past week he’s been charging about, playing the victim of right-wing forces. Man of the people attacked by his detractors etc., etc.’
‘And his lady friend from Edinburgh doesn’t sound the type to let a bit of mud-slinging get her down,’ Sam said. I raised my eyebrow at this lack of feminine empathy. She raised hers back at me.
Wullie said, ‘It’s all too pat. Sheridan knew too much, and was flaunting it. There will be an autopsy. If there’s foul play it should show up.’
Sam was tapping her table. ‘I’m just curious why he chose Balloch pier to dive off. The Clyde’s closer.’
‘The loch’s quieter? Deeper? Less likely to be found?’
‘I know Balloch well. My folks and I spent summers around there. We were invited to go shooting up by there. On the east bank of the loch.’
‘You mean . . .?’ I invited her.
‘One of the ways of driving to Colin Maxwell’s estate is through Balloch. Or for that matter if you were driving round to Helensburgh. Kenny Rankin’s mansion.’
We sat for a while smoking round the table and mulling the implications before Wullie rose and headed for the door.
‘Well, at least we have Monday’s headlines. I’ll go and see if Eddie’s got it yet.’ He turned to Sam and me. ‘You’ve got the car out. Fancy a wee trip up to Loch Lomond? You could phone in any details.’
‘It’s my day off, Wullie. And it’s not my idea of a Sunday jaunt.’ I looked at Sam. I assumed she’d had enough dealings with personal tragedies for one day. As so often, she surprised me.
‘Why not, Brodie? We’ve just enough petrol. And I’ve been saving coupons for a refill in the week. It will be nice to get out of town.’
I always forget how close Glasgow is to the real Scotland. Or do I mean the tourist, romantic Scotland? The Scotland that even the most urban of Lowlanders conjures when asked what’s Scotland like. The bits with shaved mountains, cowed glens and long troughs of water. In no time, following the Great Western Road – and averting your eyes from the blitz rubble of Clydebank – you’re out along the shimmering Clyde and the ragged lumps of rounded rock at Dumbarton. You catch glimpses of the Firth widening out like spilled mercury, and the rumps of the hills and islands beyond. Past Dumbarton, north five miles, through Alexandria and you’re on the south end of Loch Lomond. To the north, slicing off the peaks of the great mountains, the skies were a sullen black mass.
We edged into Balloch and along the high street, such as it is. There’s little enough of a town. Its focal point is the pier jutting into the loch and the railway station next to it, debouching day trippers who fancied a steam around the water. It was a busy, happy Sunday. Kids clutching sticks of rock, men in shirtsleeves and women in light frocks. Hanging on to the remnants of summer. They knew the weather couldn’t last as we slid into autumn.
We parked on the street and walked towards the pier alongside the rail tracks. There was a crowd gathered just short of the start of the wooden jetty. The Princess May was stationary alongside. Sheridan had messed up a lot of folks’ day out.
Sam said, ‘We’ll never get near.’
‘Let’s see who’s in charge. This is beyond the local bobby.’ We pushed our way through the crowd until we found ourselves out in the open with the pier clear in front of us. Two coppers stood in our way, holding the gawpers back. Beyond them was a huddled group of uniforms and plain clothes. Sangster was standing next to a tarpaulin-covered mound. A man was piling up diving gear on a wheelbarrow. Another was kneeling by the mound with a probably superfluous stethoscope dangling from his neck.
‘Sergeant? My name is Brodie. I’m from the Gazette. This is Advocate Campbell. She represents Mr Sheridan.’
The sergeant immediately looked worried. ‘How did you know it’s—?’ He pulled himself up. ‘Sorry, sir, ma’am, I have strict instructions . . .’
‘I know, I know, Sergeant, from Chief Inspector Sangster there. Would you be so kind as to ask your constable to let the chief inspector know we’re here and that we may have information that would help.’
The sergeant looked doubtful but he complied. We watched the constable go up to the group and talk to Sangster. It was as though he’d been stabbed. His head shot up and he stared our way. I could see his brain whirring from here. Eventually he said something to the officer who marched back.
‘He says, and I quote, sir, Brodie and the lady can come over, but it had better be bloody good. Sir.’
FORTY-ONE
Sam and I started walking up the pier. She hissed. ‘How could you say I represent Sheridan? And what exactly are you going to tell him that will help?’
‘I don’t know yet, Sam. Better think fast. And anyway, who’s going to argue that you represent Sheridan?’
‘You’re a menace, Brodie.’
‘You love it, Sam.’
And she did. Some people rise to challenges and are rubbish when life is placid. Just as bicycles are only really steady when they’re going like the clappers. When folk like Sam have time to dwell on trivial matters they magnify them into full-blown disasters. They’re too hard on themselves, unsparing in their self-criticism. Sam’s bar was set too high for her comfort. But it made her a good woman to have on your flank. Sam’s eyes were bright and her shoulders back as we walked purposefully towards Sangster.
‘Are you some kind of understudy for the grim reaper, Brodie? Where there’s death, there you are?’ He nodded to Sam. ‘Miss Campbell, I didn’t know you were Jimmie Sheridan’s brief.’ There was a sceptical tone in his voice.
‘I won’t comment on that until we find out what’s going on. Client privilege, Chief Inspector. As you can tell by the very fact we’re here, we know something about this case. Isn’t that right, Brodie?’ She smiled at me, challenging me.
‘First things first, Sangster. What’s the initial theory of cause of death?’
‘Apart from drowning, you mean?’ For a moment he studied us and I thought he was going to call our bluff, but then he turned back to the kneeling figure. ‘Doctor, how are you doing? First findings?’
The doctor looked up. I’d known him before the war. ‘Jamie Frew, isn’t it? Hello, Doctor, I’m . . .’
‘I ken you, Brodie. I thought you’d gone to war and never came back?’
‘Sorry to disappoint you, Jamie. Here I am.’
‘You were always one for finding trouble, Brodie.’ Sam nudged me. I ignored her. ‘Maybe we could have a wee dram sometime to celebrate your homecoming?’
‘I’d enjoy that, Jamie.’
‘Could I interrupt this wee social hour and ask you to stick to the job in hand?’ said Sangster.
Frew peeled back the corner
of the tarpaulin. He stood up and we all looked down on the shocked grey faces of Sheridan and his lover. Water pooled around their heads. The skin of his face lay loose and flabby as though it was coming off in the water. His blue eyes were wide and staring. He couldn’t believe where he’d ended up. The woman’s face was older and far more lined than the recent press photos of a laughing good-time girl. Her make-up was smeared and washed away. Grey roots showed in her slicked blonde hair. An old mermaid who’d lost the gift.
‘Weeell, at first sight, it’s a simple straightforward drowning, a terrible accident. A wrong turn? Brakes failed? They’ve been in the water for at least eight hours, maybe twelve. So sometime last night I’d say.’
‘At first sight, Jamie? What about a second?’
Jamie’s eyes wandered away. ‘I don’t want to say anything until we’ve carried out the post-mortem.’
‘But?’
He turned to look at me. ‘But when I probed their mouths and massaged the chests, as well as water coming up, there was a distinct sweet smell.’
‘Spit it out, man,’ said Sangster.
‘I’d know it anywhere. Any doctor would. It’s chloroform.’
I grabbed Sam as I felt her sway beside me. Even tough ladies have their limits.
Sangster whipped round. ‘You know something?’
‘We’ve got some experience of this modus operandi, Sangster. In fact Miss Campbell here has first-hand knowledge. You’ll recall that back in April, she was abducted. The man who did it used a chloroform pad.’
Sam cleared her throat. ‘It was Gerrit Slattery, Chief Inspector. He used it several times on me over the few days he . . . held me.’
‘But they’re gone! The Slatterys are gone,’ said Sangster, staring at me. Was that accusation in his eyes? Or paranoia in mine?
I said, ‘Not all of them. Two of their tough guys showed up last night in chauffeur’s uniform. Curly and Fitz.’
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