The Silver Arrow

by Ian Todd

  “Right, sorry aboot that. Ah believe ye wanted a word wae me, Swansea?” The Stalker asked pleasantly, hivving goat his composure back.

  “Inspector, Mr Epstein is here on official business. He’s a legally appointed precognition officer, employed by Mr Graham Portoy to assist in gathering witness statements. I must insist that he be released into my custody forthwith.”

  “Employed? Simon Epstein? Ur ye bloody hivving me oan or whit?” The Stalker scoffed, laughing dismissively, mair as a statement than a question.

  “If you had happened to clarify his position before manhandling him in that brutal fashion, you would have been able to ascertain that Mr Epstein has identification on his person that would satisfy you that he’s here on legitimate business.”

  “Look, let’s get wan thing straight here. You and that dumb boss ae yers may be taken in by that murdering shitehoose through there, bit Ah’m certainly no,” The Stalker growled, pointing his thumb o’er his shoulder in the direction ae the cells oan the other side ae the wall.”

  “I must prote…”

  “That dirty shitehoose broke in here the other day there…intae ma office, wid ye believe…and blagged polis property belonging tae me and the force. That’s breaking and entry, so it is. Ye don’t think somewan like me is gonnae let that wan go withoot a response, dae ye?” The Stalker demanded tae know, his voice reaching shrill level.

  “If you have evidence that Simon Epstein committed a crime, then there are clear statute arrest and investigative procedures, Inspector.”

  “Look, before we start, Swansea, let’s get something straight. Don’t come up tae ma patch and start tae patronise me by trying tae tell me ma job, eh? Ah know mair aboot that muff-diver through there, than ye’ll ever know. If you and that wee pansy poof ae a boss ae yers want tae be taken in by him, then that’s your problem. Jist don’t expect the rest ae us tae follow suit. We don’t get paid tae protect the likes ae him at the expense ae everywan else. Noo, as ye kin see, Ah’m busy, so whit the fuck ur ye efter?” The Stalker snarled, pointing tae the mass ae stacked ae papers oan his desk.

  Swansea looked at the inspector. This wis the first time that he’d been this close tae The Stalker. Take the braided uniform away and he wid look jist like any another middle-aged angry man. The tactics ae McPhee and his henchmen wur well documented, particularly amongst young males who wur processed through the busiest court system in Europe. Swansea hid lost coont ae the number ae young males and their families that he’d interviewed, who’d turned up in court fae custody wae stitches in their heids and their shirts and jaickets covered in dried, congealed blood. Despite strenuous appeals tae the bench, practically every charge ae polis brutality wis routinely dismissed oot-ae-haun by the Sheriff or the Justice ae The Peace oan the day. Oan the rare occasion when an assault hid been investigated, usually by the polis fae the neighbouring division, the case wis thrown oot and dismissed. He wondered whit tae dae next. He could’ve sworn that Simon hid telt him that the pocket notebook hid been returned. The Stalker clearly didnae gie the impression that he wis in possession ae it efter demanding his book back. The obvious course ae action wis tae staun up and make a hasty retreat. If Simon still hid the notebook, then the case wis blown tae bits and they’d never get tae submit it as part ae the evidence. The whole appeal wis riding oan getting access tae it. At that exact moment in time, Graham Portoy wis lodging a submission in The Sheriff Court tae gain access tae the service notebook. Whit should he dae? Graham wid hiv Simon oot within a couple ae hours, backed up wae a complaint ae polis brutality tae follow, bit the thought ae leaving Simon at the mercy ae The Stalker and his henchmen, even fur a couple ae hours, sent shivers up Swansea’s spine. It widnae be the first time that a prisoner who’d walked intae the building he wis noo sitting in, wis carried oot in a grey, paint flaked, undertaker’s tin coffin a couple ae hours later. He looked intae the inspector’s eyes. He hid a smirk oan his face that telt Swansea that he wis awready reading the turmoil swirling aroond in the Welshman’s heid. The ruddy-faced expression oan the face sitting opposite him wae the greying sideburns, didnae at first reflect cruelty. It wis only when ye looked deep intae the almost pitch-black angry eyes that a totally different picture emerged aw thegither. It wis strange. Swansea could see that the inspector wis clearly enjoying and relishing the eftermath ae the affray that hid jist taken place. The eyes wur still shining like wet diamonds, soaked up wae excitement and anticipation, urging defiance in the precognition officer’s stance, so he could get another opportunity tae vent his anger oan somewan. It wis as if there wis some sort ae pent-up sexual frustration at play. Efter the meeting wae Graham the day before, when Swansea hid reported back Simon Epstein’s ultimatum aboot accelerating Johnboy Taylor’s appeal, Graham’s response hid surprised him. Insteid ae rejecting the instruction oot ae haun, Graham hid asked him tae repeat everything that hid been said between them, occasionally stoapping him mid-sentence tae ask fur clarification oan a particular point here or there.

  “And you’re convinced Simon hasn’t taken possession of the service notebook, Swansea?”

  “So he claims, Graham. I’ve no reason to doubt him,” he’d confirmed.

  “As long as you’re clear that your role is to support Simon Epstein when you meet with Inspector McPhee, then I don’t have a problem. The main thing is that you…we…cannot be party to anything illegal, including false claims that Senga Jackson was the nurse on duty that night,” he’d emphasised. “If Simon wants to mislead McPhee, then that’s his prerogative. As long as you neither confirm nor deny his claim through your role as a silent observer at the meeting, then I can’t see how we could be implicated.”

  “Should I take notes?” he’d asked.

  “Not unless McPhee is being co-operative and allows access to the notebook, which is highly unlikely. I should be in front of the sheriff by that time.”

  And then it hit him. The look ae anticipation, the combative glow behind the shining eyes ae Graham Portoy wur mirrored in the eyes ae The Inspector sitting opposite him. Take the cruelty oot ae the eyes ae The Stalker, and they wur wan and the same as Swansea’s boss’s hid been. It wis as if the baith ae them wur moulded fae either side ae the same vessel, baith relishing the up-and-coming fight, a battle between two halves wae only wan left staunin. He wis perplexed. This wis the showdoon between his boss and the inspector sitting opposite him that hid been building up fur years. It aw made sense noo. In aw the times o’er the years, when they’d sat discussing their ups and doons in their dealings wae the erms ae the law, Paddy McPhee’s name always, withoot fail, surfaced. Swansea felt the sweat break oot oan his brow. Whit should he dae next? In aw the time that he, or Graham Portoy, fur that matter, hid hid dealings wae The Mankys, they’d always been upfront and almost honest tae a fault. Why wid Simon Epstein noo lie aboot no hivving taken possession ae the inspector’s notebook? It jist didnae make sense. He coonted tae five slowly before opening the folder Simon hid left lying oan the flair in front ae the desk oot in reception. Withoot asking, he pushed a couple ae bundles ae stacked paper tae the wan side oan the desk tae make room fur it, flicking through it as if looking fur something. He came tae the page that hid Senga Jackson’s work timetable and peered at it closely. He hid tae admit that he wis impressed. At first glance, even wae closer scrutiny, he widnae hiv picked up that whit he wis looking at wis a forgery. As well as the Stobhill General Hospital letterheid, address and telephone details, the page hid a grid oan it, highlighting dates, days, times and shifts. Where a pen hid tae be used in the boxes rather than type, different coloured ink as well as fountain and ballpoint pens hid been used. The sheet covered a month. Two ae the weeks wur marked doon as nightshifts. Oan the right haun column, a signature hid been signed individually in each box aw the way fae the tap ae the page tae the bottom. The signature wis signed by either a Marion Blakely or a Jackie McKean, ward sister-in-charge ae that particular shift. He lay the folder doon oan the desk, open and face-up, before proc
eeding tae look fur his glasses in the inside ae his jaicket pocket. He caught The Stalker furtively looking at the timesheet.

  “Right, where was I, Inspector? Oh yes, here we go,” he said, putting oan his glasses and picking up the folder before continuing. “I’m investigating the possibility that Mr Portoy’s client, Mr John Taylor, is innocent of The Clydeside Bank robbery on Maryhill Road that took place on the 9th of November 1972, which resulted in two police officers being shot and Mr Taylor subsequently being sentenced to fourteen years in a young offenders institution,” he said, looking up fae the folder at the astonished looking polis inspector sitting opposite him.

  “Right, jist haud oan there wan minute. Ur ye taking the pish oot ae me or whit?” The Stalker growled.

  “Now, why would I be…er…taking the pish, as you so eloquently put it, Inspector?”

  “Johnboy Taylor and the rest ae his muckers…aw murdering shitehoose scum, bar none…including the wan ye arrived here the day wae, shot two brave serving polis officers in the line ae duty. A jury ae good men and true found the basturt guilty as sin, so they did, and if Ah hid ma way, Taylor and that mute pal ae his wid’ve been strung up by their scrawny necks,” The Stalker snarled, a pulsating vein appearing oan the right haun side ae his temple.

  “Yes, quite, but that was before new evidence has emerged that contradicts that judgement. In fact, Inspector, not only do we believe that the new evidence will find Mr Taylor innocent of all charges, but in all probability, will implicate current serving police officers in a conspiracy of lies and cover-up that has allowed Mr Taylor to be denied his freedom, despite his innocence,” Swansea replied, haudin his breath, waiting fur the blast.

  He hidnae long tae wait. Swansea wisnae too sure whether he should call fur assistance or no. The inspector’s face suddenly turned a deep purple before the blood drained fae it jist as quickly, like a bottle ae sour milk wae a hole in the arse ae it, turning tae a deathly green shade ae death.

  “Inspector, are you alright? Do you wish me to call for assistance?”

  “Listen, ya dirty, scummy, Welsh basturt, ye. Ye hiv the cheek tae come in here…tae ma polis station…upsetting ma regime and then hiv the bloody cheek tae sit there and tell me that whore’s son, Johnboy Taylor, is innocent ae aw charges and that he wis set up? Hiv ye any idea…fur jist wan minute…whit they poor officers and their families hiv gone through, eh?” The Stalker bawled at the tap ae his voice towards the Welshman, covering Swansea’s dark bushy eyebrows in spit.

  “I know that what I’ve just disclosed must have come as quite a shock, Inspector, but surely, as a serving police inspector yourself, you would be concerned if an innocent man…a teenager…was languishing in prison whilst the guilty was wandering around, Scot free?” Swansea retorted.

  “Whether it wis this crime or another, Taylor and aw his manky pals hiv wreaked havoc back in the Toonheid and then up here in Springburn since they wur wee snappers in shitey nappies. Whether he’s innocent or no, as you claim, is irrelevant. The crimes committed by him and they scummy pals ae his wid’ve sent better men than they ever could strive tae be tae the gallows fur less, when the judiciary wisnae run by long-haired commies wae the arses ripped oot ae their troosers, pretending tae be liberals. So, please don’t sit there telling me Johnboy Taylor is innocent, Mr Welsh Rare-Bit. Ah won’t hiv ma intelligence insulted in ma ain polis station, especially no by somewan who isnae even a fucking lawyer,” The Stalker sputtered, haudin oan tae the side ae his desk wae baith hauns, gasping fur breath.

  “I’m sorry you feel that way, Inspector.”

  “And anyway, whit’s this goat tae dae wae me, eh? Should ye no be talking tae some ae the Maryhill boys? The bank wis oan their turf, so it wis.”

  “Yes, well, no doubt we’ll get around to that, but in the meantime, I was wondering if you could clarify a few details for me?”

  “Details? Whit details? Like whit?” The Stalker hauf shouted in exasperation, erms ootstretched in crucifix fashion.

  “Well, I understand that you interviewed and took a statement from a Mr Sandy Murray, who informed you that our client, Mr Taylor, was innocent of the said crime,” Swansea replied, looking up fae his file ae paper and looking The Stalker in the eye.

  “Murray? Sandy Murray? Noo, who the fuck is he when he’s at hame then?”

  “I believe you visited fifty-two-year-old Mr Sandy Murray, who also goes by the nom de plume of Halfwit, in Stobhill Hospital on the evening of Saturday, the 23rd of March, of this year. Would that be correct, Inspector?”

  Silence.

  “We also understand that it was an unofficial visit…at least, unofficial if one was to go by the official visiting hours, which suggests that you were visiting Mr Murray as part of an official police investigation…in the middle of the night. Would that also be correct?”

  “Ah hivnae a bloody clue whit ye’re oan aboot, Sunny-Jim.”

  “Yes, well, according to one of our witnesses, a young nurse, who was on duty that night, you sat and interviewed Mr Murray shortly before he died and you also took a written statement from him. I was wondering…in light of me sharing our information with you, as well as Mr Portoy’s intention to pursue the matter through the courts…if you would save everyone a bit of time and bother by reciprocating and allowing us to have a copy of Mr Murray’s statement. It would be much appreciated,” Swansea asked pleasantly, this time growing alarmed, as the inspector erupted in a fit ae coughing and spluttering.

  Chapter Thirty Three

  “At last,” Sheriff Clifford Burns exclaimed. “Can I presume that we have arrived at the crux of the matter, Miss Metcalfe? Can you please tell me what the procurator fiscal’s response, on behalf of The Crown is, regarding this unusual request?” Sheriff Clifford Burns asked the procurator fiscal, resignation in his voice.

  Whit should’ve been a straightforward ‘aye’ or ‘naw’ tae start wae, before swiftly moving oan tae the next case, hid become a right Battle Royale…or a right pain in the proverbial arse. It hid crossed his mind tae object tae Glenda Metcalfe conducting the case oan behauf ae The Crown before the case wis heard, bit aw the other procurator fiscals wur in the middle ae hearings and due tae the recent statement at the Bar Association’s Awards by Graham Portoy, which the sheriff hid attended, heidlines ae judicial cave-in soon put paid tae that. Insteid, he’d hid tae sit and witness these two prevaricate oan the flimsiest objections fur the past hour.

  “As you have quite rightly pointed out, your honour, this is a most unusual request indeed. My learned colleague has stated that he is in the process…the process, mind you, of submitting an application to the Appeals Court in Edinburgh for permission to lodge an appeal against the conviction of his client. That client, convicted and sentenced, along with two others, for shooting two brave police officers in the line of duty at The Clydeside Bank on Maryhill Road oan the 9th of November 1972 is rightfully in custody where he belongs. May I point out that his client was subsequently refused leave to appeal by three imminent law lords…such was the evidence of guilt put forward before Lord Campbell of Claremyle and the jury at the original trial at the High Court in Glasgow back in May 1973. It would appear that not only is Mr Portoy grasping at straws to instigate a review, but he’s asking this court to collude in this fanciful exercise at the tax payers’ expense. Having spoken with senior police officers earlier, they are appalled at the cavalier manner in which my learned friend is conducting himself under the questionable auspices of seeking a so-called review, not only at the expense of the public purse, but of the victims and their families who are still traumatised, even after all this time, by their unfortunate experience. For Mr Portoy to come to this courtroom on the flimsiest of so-called new evidence is nothing short of criminal…in my opinion, your honour.”

  “Mr Portoy?” the sheriff sighed in resignation, getting mair depressed by the minute.

  Graham Portoy took his time and sat, gieing those in the public galleries the impression that he wis deep
in Transcendental Meditation. In actual fact, he wis remembering back tae the first time he’d hid a run-in wae Glenda Metcalfe. That wis before she’d decided tae take up elocution lessons tae get rid ae that accent that wid’ve made a resident ae Blackhill sound as if they’d been educated at Allen Glen’s. He hid tae admit, she’d done well fur hersel, if working fur a weekly pay packet fae the state wis aw ye wanted oot ae life. He’d jist qualified and hid jist started oot oan his probationary year. Between her and auld GP Donnelly, the Justice ae The Peace that ran The Central District Court like something oot ae Stalin’s Kremlin at the time, they’d kicked that arse ae his aw o’er the courtroom. He smiled thinking back oan it…although that widnae be the last time that she’d score a similar victory o’er him, those times wur few and far between these days. At the time, his father hid been deid fur three years, hivving been fished oot ae the Clyde under suspicious circumstances. It should’ve been his proudest moment, in memory ae his father, being called tae the bar, seeing as his first case hid been a straightforward wan. A young boy hid been caught stealing, or breaking intae a shoap and given his track record, even though he’d only jist turned thirteen at the time, Glenda Metcalfe hid demanded and wis duly rewarded, wae the boy being sent tae an approved school. An unreported event that happened oan an almost daily basis throughoot the district courts in the city, he remembered heiding hame that day wae his tail between his legs and the sound ae Glenda Metcalfe’s shrill laughter ringing in his ears. That wisnae whit hid upset him though. It hid been the fact that he’d turned up practically late fur the start ae the hearing, totally unprepared and JP hid turned oan him when he found oot who his father hid been. Graham hid always believed that his family connection wae his father, hid denied the boy oan trial fur his freedom that day, a fair crack ae the whip. Despite losing his freedom, the boy hid never furgoatten him and whenever him and his friends goat arrested, they always refused tae accept a court-appointed brief other than himsel, even at the expense ae being remanded in custody when Graham wisnae available. That young boy hid been Johnboy Taylor. Who wid’ve thought that the wee red heided urchin wid’ve hid such an effect oan his professional career?