Bitter Water

by Ferris, Gordon

  ‘Morag?’

  ‘Just one of the girls.’ Had my voice changed?

  ‘Your girls?’

  ‘The girls.’

  ‘She sounds helpful.’

  FORTY-SIX

  I sat at the small table in the lounge area of the room and scratched out the story that had been rumbling through my head since meeting Frew the night before. It was a delicate balance between fact and supposition. But the bones of it were clear enough: six people, counting Morton, had now died and their deaths were linked. The first murder in the Monkey Club tied in with the second pair in that all three were homosexuals. And they’d had accusatory notes stuffed in their dead mouths. In addition the second pair had been chloroformed. So had Sheridan and his girlfriend. And poor Morton was likely a harbinger for Sheridan’s demise.

  The brutality of their deaths and the drugging of their victims bore the hallmarks of Curly and Fitz. Both were now working for Maxwell. What I couldn’t do was find a motive that connected them all. For the moment, therefore, I couldn’t link Maxwell with any of it. Eddie would self-combust at the thought of accusing Sir Colin of skulduggery without photographic proof, a signed confession and an eye-witness statement from the Pope. I’d talk to McAllister and ask for his help on checking out the background of the three dead lads.

  I went down to the hallway and found the phone booth. I piled some change on top and dialled the Gazette. I pushed the money in and pressed A when I heard one of the secretary’s voices.

  ‘It’s Brodie. Is that Elaine? Can I speak to Wullie McAllister, please.’

  ‘Hello, Mr Brodie. He’s not in yet, but Mr Paton wants a word. He said it was urgent.’

  I sighed. ‘Elaine, it’s always urgent with Eddie. Sure, put me through.’

  She giggled. ‘Hold on please.’

  There was a pause, a ring and then a blast: ‘Where the effin’ hell are you, Brodie? The world’s in flames here! I need you right here, right now!’

  ‘And good morning to you too, Eddie. I’d be there like a shot, but there’s a very real chance of getting a chloroform pad in my face followed by a knife in the back. Maxwell’s goons are on the rampage and the likelihood is we’re next.’

  ‘Whit? Who’s we? And what the hell do you mean Maxwell’s goons? We’ll need proof a mile high if you’re making accusations like that!’

  ‘One thing at a time, Eddie. The we is Samantha Campbell and me. And maybe McAllister as well. We’re at risk. I was attacked in the swimming pool this morning. I’m phoning in the story. But I’m not mentioning Maxwell. Not yet.’

  ‘Why didn’t you say so! In the mean effin’ time, what am I supposed to do with shouty phone calls from these buggers the Marshals? Not to mention visitations by your pal Sangster?’

  ‘No pal of mine. Look, let’s start with your news. What exactly are the Marshals shouting about this time?’

  ‘Your effin’ Tuesday article, of course. They were phoning all yesterday and again this morning!’

  I had a moment’s guilt at ducking their calls. ‘Why? I was kind. I said the murders didn’t look like the work of the Marshals. It didn’t have their calling card. What more do they want?’

  ‘Ah suppose it’s not so much what you wrote as what the polis said about it.’

  ‘Eddie, we’re going round in circles here. Just tell me what happened this morning.’

  ‘It was on the wireless, for God’s sake. Did you no’ listen? The Chief Constable of Glasgow – the top man, Brodie! – has personally come out and said he was going after the Marshals no matter what – and I quote – some clever dick local news reporter cares to write – end of quote. He means you, Brodie. And that means me! He went on about returning the streets to the people, upholding the law and a’ that bullshit.’

  ‘So why did the Marshals call you?’

  ‘They want you. They want to speak to you as soon as you care to drop by, Brodie.’

  ‘What do I do, then? Did they suggest a meeting?’

  ‘They gave a nummer. A Glasgow nummer. But it’s only to be used until twelve noon, the day. Then it’ll change.’

  ‘Have you tried it?’

  ‘No fear!’

  ‘Tell me.’ I pulled my notepad to me and scribbled the four digits after the Glasgow code.

  ‘What about Sangster? What did he want?’

  ‘Your hide, Brodie. Tanned and nailed to his wall. Let me see . . . for having secret assignations with known criminals and murderers. For conspiracy to disrupt a police investigation. For conspiring with police medical practitioners to reveal secret information. And on and on and on.’

  ‘What did you tell him?’

  ‘That the press was independent and free and we were not prepared to reveal our sources. Besides, I had no idea where the fuck you were. Did you, by the by, happen to ascertain anything useful from your medical pal?’

  I sighed. ‘That’s why we’re lying low. That’s the story I’m going to dictate to one of the girls if you’d just let me. I’m saying that the three murders of the homosexuals are linked to Sheridan and his lady friend’s death.’

  ‘Good God! That’s terrific! What’s the connection?’

  ‘Chloroform. They were all found with high levels of chloroform in their bodies. Sorry, to be precise: the first murder – Connie? – his post-mortem was carried out by somebody else. Jamie’s checking, but we can’t actually say it was connected with the others. The link there is the homosexual one.’

  ‘But we can run with it?’

  ‘I’m counting on it. Maybe even an evening special? We still don’t know why, though we can guess it’s something to do with the Glasgow redevelopment project. We’re also pretty certain it involves the remnants of the Slattery gang who work for Maxwell. But if Maxwell is involved, we don’t have proof. So I’m leaving him and the old Slattery boys out of it for the moment. But the key point is, Eddie, they are ready to get rid of anyone standing in their way. You have to warn Wullie. Is he in yet?’

  ‘No yet. You ken what he’s like.’

  ‘Can you get in touch with him? Has he got a phone at home?’

  ‘He stays with his brother, Stewart, out by Govan. I’ll get one o’ the lassies to get a telegram round to him. Ask him to gi’e us a phone. In the meantime, where are you?’

  ‘Need to know, Eddie. Best not to tell you. I’ll phone in from time to time. But now, hand me back to Morag or one of the girls and you’ll have a draft column in half an hour. Then I’ll call this number you gave me.’

  ‘Where are you?’ Morag hissed. She had her mouth pressed against the phone and was shouting quietly at me.

  ‘I’m lying low for a wee while.’

  ‘Alone?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘With that woman, I suppose?’

  ‘Morag, I don’t have time for this. I need you to take some dictation. There’s a story we need to get out.’

  The line went quiet for a bit then a frosty, precise voice responded, ‘OK, Mister Brodie, I’m ready . . .’

  I rubbed my ear after we’d hung up. I’d put things right with Morag when we got back. I dialled the number Eddie gave me. It rang for a while, then: ‘Packhorse Inn. We’re no’ open yet.’

  ‘I want Drummond.’

  There was silence, then a distant muttered argument, then: ‘Where are you, Brodie?’

  ‘Why does everyone ask that? Having an early pint or two, Drummond? Dutch courage for the next punishment rendezvous?’

  ‘Shut up, Brodie. We’re using these premises as a temporary base. Did you hear the wireless this morning?’

  ‘No, but I gather my golden words didn’t impress the Chief Constable. I tried, Drummond.’

  ‘Not hard enough, it seems!’

  ‘Cops are simple-minded creatures. Once they get an idea into their heads, it’s hard to dislodge.’

  ‘You know something, Brodie, don’t you? You know who’s doing this. It’s something to do with Sheridan’s death, isn’t it?

  �
��I don’t know how you make that leap, Drummond. But whatever I have is pure supposition. We don’t have the proof.’

  ‘Then what the hell do we do?’

  ‘Why the hell should I care? You made your bed of thistles. You maun lie in it.’

  His voice went quieter, more tense. ‘Brodie, this isn’t for me. I don’t care what happens to me. It’s my men. You’ll understand that. You have to help us.’

  ‘I really don’t. And in truth, even if I did, I wouldn’t know how.’

  ‘Brodie, look, we’re moving on from here now, so don’t try any tricks. I’ll leave another number tomorrow morning at the Gazette. Just call me. OK?’ He didn’t, couldn’t say please, but it was as near to begging as I think Drummond ever got.

  ‘I’ll see.’

  FORTY-SEVEN

  Sam and I took a stroll through the grounds of the hotel and down along the shoreline. We kept in costume, partly to convince the hotel we were dilettante upper class out for a few days’ shooting, partly because it felt comfortable and right among the turning trees and wild scenery. Full tweeds and, over our shoulders, the Dixons, broken open. Our gamekeepers’ pockets bulging with cartridges.

  The last time I’d used these beautiful weapons had been for real, against the Slatterys. This was the chance to enjoy them, savour their weight and perfect balance, bring them up and across to track a flushed pigeon. We took down a couple before deciding that, rather than massacre all the feathered wildlife, we’d get the hotel to set up their clay shoot. We strolled back. A young boy from the kitchen leaped at the chance with glee, and hunkered down behind a dip between the hotel and the shoreline.

  We called pull and let rip. The loch echoed to the crashing of our guns. Whether it was the excitement of firing or the fresh air and autumn sunshine, I didn’t know, but Sam’s face glowed. This was what she needed.

  Annoyingly, for the first dozen clays she was the better shot. Her gun came up smoothly, tight into her shoulder, her right leg well planted back, her left bent at the knee and braced. Time after time her pellets erupted in deadly accuracy. She looked like a kid, pink-cheeked and laughing, her eyes bright with the light of competition. I tried to rise to the occasion, but even with fine guns like these it took me a few shots to get my eye in. Eventually the recoil was taking its toll on my shoulder. When we seemed to be honours even, I spoke up.

  ‘Enough. I’m out of practice. You win. Your father taught you well, Sam.’

  ‘I felt him on my shoulder, saying, “Squeeze, don’t jerk. Keep it smooth.” It still works.’

  We cleaned and stowed the guns, and passed the rest of the afternoon walking, interspersed with afternoon tea. We dressed more soberly for dinner. It was then I noticed her hand.

  ‘You’re wearing a ring.’

  ‘Mrs Carnegie would, don’t you think?’

  ‘Where did you get it?’

  ‘My mother’s.’

  It was a smart move. Sam must have planned it as we were packing. It left me feeling strange.

  Later, in post-prandial satiety, we loitered with whiskies in armchairs in front of the picture window in our room. Outside, the loch lay sullen dark except where the moonlight tore a silver rag from its surface.

  Sam’s ring picked up the same light. If things had turned out differently she’d have been wearing her own today. And I wouldn’t be here.

  ‘What was he like? Your sailor?’

  ‘Lieutenant David Reid, RN? And sometime lawyer?’

  ‘Do you mind? Not if you don’t want . . .’

  ‘No, it’s fine. We were at university together, same law courses. I loved it. He hated it. David was planning to retrain as a medic before he got called up. Just wasn’t cut out for law. Family tradition.’ She held up her hand. ‘Yes, like mine. But I wanted a law career. It wasn’t to please my dad. Remind me when all this is over, Brodie. It’s time I got properly back to work, instead of all this part-time stuff lately.’

  ‘Good. I will.’

  ‘David was a good man. You’re a good man too, Douglas, but different. David hated violence.’

  ‘Meaning I love it? I thought you wanted me to fight?’

  ‘No. That’s not it. David would turn the other cheek if someone hit him. You’d knock his head off. It doesn’t mean David was a coward. He expected to die on convoy duty, but went anyway. He just never thought violence solved anything.’

  ‘Whereas I do?’

  ‘I wish I could have sat and listened to the pair of you arguing your case.’

  ‘Lately, I would have been more on his side than you think.’

  ‘I’m sure that’s true. And David would have made an exception for Charlie Maxwell.’

  ‘I’d have liked your man. He had good taste.’

  She smiled. ‘David could see that Charlie . . .’ She waved her hand.

  ‘Could see what?’

  ‘That he was interested in me. For years. I couldn’t shake him off. He was used to getting his own way. He couldn’t stand it when David came on the scene. He knew David was the better man.’ She suddenly got up and walked to the window, and stared out into the night.

  ‘Sorry, Sam. I didn’t meant to open old wounds.’

  ‘It’s all right. I don’t mind talking about David. It’s Maxwell.’

  ‘He hit dogs, you said.’ I tried to make it light.

  She turned and looked hard at me. ‘I haven’t told anyone this. David was lost in ’42. About a year later I was invited out to Inverard. To stay for a couple of days. Shooting and so on. Like we used to. The invitation had Colin’s name on it. But only Charlie was there. It was too late to turn round and leave but I decided I’d go home the next day. I came down to dinner and it was like a seduction scene from some B movie. Chandeliers, candles, big fire and Charlie in a kilt.’ She stopped and smiled ruefully.

  ‘Bad knees?’

  She laughed. ‘No, the kilt was fine. But I think he slipped something into the wine. Charlie was always one for cocaine. A habit he picked up in London and Paris. I don’t remember much about the evening. But I woke up in my room with him on top of me.’

  ‘The bastard! He raped you?’

  A smile drew across her face. ‘He tried. But he couldn’t.’ She raised her pinkie and waggled it, pointing down. ‘The spirit was willing, but . . .’

  ‘You must hate him.’

  ‘Not as much as he hates me.’

  When dark finally settled across the loch, we separated with a chaste peck on the cheek, Sam to the bedroom, me to the couch with the spare blankets. We exchanged a last rueful smile and closed the door. I sat for a time smoking in the dark, until my eyes adjusted and the dull expanse of water and the treeline took on definition against the black mound of Ben Lomond.

  I spent a little time thinking about Sam and me. But it was a track too well worn to walk again. Still, no wonder the girl was wary of men if she kept running into sods like Maxwell. What did that say about me?

  I forced my mind to switch tracks, to think what the morn would bring. There were so many threads snapping and tangling in the wind. I found myself worrying about the Marshals, this ragtag platoon of lost souls led by a demented ex-officer with poison in his soul. The months after demob I’d spent in London pickling myself in alcohol had taught me how close the line was between disappointment and despair, melancholy and desolation. There were still moments – when I wasn’t engaged with life, when I wasn’t in pursuit of something outside myself – that I caught the black dog out of the corner of my eyes. It was never far away.

  Lying at three in the morning staring into the dark. Or waking each morning and thinking about the first drink that night. I knew it had a grip, but I was certain it wasn’t a stranglehold. That I could go a day without it. Sam had a problem, but not all the time, and we only really drank to be sociable with each other. Yet I knew that when the morning’s nausea cleared and the thudding behind the eyes lifted, the cycle began again, and by evening it was a case of why not? But that was tomorrow�
��s problem. I took another sip and focused on Sir Kenneth Rankin.

  We were determined to drive to his house on the hillside above Helensburgh by mid-morning. We’d give no warning, and hope to beard Kenny and Moira in their den and put them to the question.

  What could we hope to gain? And why would Rankin play ball? We were gambling on Rankin wanting to disassociate himself from Maxwell’s extreme actions. Rankin might have loose morals when it came to making and keeping piles of money, but Sam was certain he’d draw the line at conspiracy to commit murder.

  I wasn’t so persuaded it would be his moral code that stopped him. No matter how much they had, the rich always wanted more. But I was pretty sure that the risk of a stretched neck would have a penitential influence. Could we get him to admit it publicly? Could we get a confession out of him that would nail Charlie Maxwell? Sam’s revelation had convinced me were talking about Maxwell the Younger. He had the right set of standards. She was sure old Colin was being used by his noxious offspring.

  I stubbed out my cigarette and made up my bed on the couch. I looked at her door and hoped she at least felt safe from me. I took heart from her sneaking into my bed the other night to shield her from her demons. Some anyway.

  FORTY-EIGHT

  By 9.30 a.m. Thursday morning we were driving south on the road that wound along Loch Long. The kippers and mountain of toast were healing the damage of the last nightcap or two. We’d dressed in dark suit and cashmere twin-set as befitted calling on a knight and lady of the realm. Even Sam’s pearls were getting an outing. I drove while Sam named the peaks rising up from the far bank of the loch. In a gap in her recital, I asked, ‘What happens if Rankin just throws us out? If he denies everything, we have no proof and the Gazette won’t run it.’

  She shrugged. ‘Then we’re in bother.’

  We swung through Garelochhead and down towards Helensburgh. I was reminded how pretty a town it was, with the best houses cascading down the steep hillside to the promenade and seafront. We started to wend our way up the switchback rough roads until we were near the top. The houses were solid, light sandstone. They varied from big to huge. This was Bearsden by Sea. We turned right so we were running across the sloping hillside.