The House_Dark Urban Scottish Crime Story

by John Mayer

  ‘There can’t be a Mass in the ordinary sense, but with Young Father Flaherty’s blessing and the agreement of the Chief Medical Officer for Scotland, we can carry in procession the sealed incinerated ashes of the dead from the Crematorium to a pit which Arab will be in charge of digging - somewhere here in the Calton. And after all this is over - which, God willing it will be - we’ll erect a gravestone to them all. And, I assure you, it’ll be a big gravestone.’

  As he spoke, with sincerity written all over his face and his subtle gestures portraying all the aplomb of the oldest fashioned Queen’s Counsel in Parliament House, the multitude began to see what in their grief, they’d allowed to slip away: they began to see their own Brogan McLane as the man to rely upon. The one who would lead them out of this wilderness. More attentive now, the young men shut up while the older men nodded their pride in this wee boy they’d seen grow up amongst them to become Baron McLane of Calton.

  ‘Now, if we promise not to interfere with these sealed containers - which will be welded shut - then we can bury our dead in one specially deep ‘grave’ for ever. This won’t happen immediately. Not least because the actual burial site hasn’t been agreed. As you know, Glasgow City Council still wants to demolish the whole of the Calton to expand the motorway and build shopping malls. We need a burial site, so we’ll have to see how this fight pans out. Now, what I want to know, right here and now, is whether the majority of you agree with this ‘mass grave’ proposal. We’ll do this by a show of hands and every man, woman and child over twelve, will have a vote; as will I and Young Father Flaherty. Big Joe Mularkey, Arab and Tucker will count the votes and I will announce your decision. Does everyone agree to that?’

  Milling among the crowd, they counted; Arab in particular casting all but the counting from his mind. On the podium, McLane took the numbers with a nod.

  ‘OK. The vote is in and I’m glad to say that the vast majority of you agree with this course of action. Over eighty percent, in fact. I’ll keep you informed of developments by writing Minutes for the Calton Residents' Association which will be available for one and all to read in the Calton Bar. Alright?’

  The sinking sun behind low dark clouds better expressed the feeling of over a thousand people than any poet ever could. From the podium, when McLane began to thank them all for coming he was first to notice something in the corner of his eye. As he turned to look, others in the crowd began to smell it and they turned too. McLane never got his full thanks out because the pall of black smoke blowing overhead on the wind came like a counter-punch from the devil himself. Darker and darker the sky became until they began to cover their mouths with handkerchiefs and sleeves.

  Leading the way through the dusty red streets at the fastest pace he could muster, as he turned onto Green street, Young Father Flaherty was first to see it. The awful sight struck him as though God himself had sliced the sky into two halves: one side red, the other black. When the crowd reached the barrier, a line of police and fire officers stood ready for any trouble. However, none ensued. Standing in silence, they watched the whole sky go red as the flames surged up in tongues longer than those of any mythical serpent. Then, when the flames soaring up from the old Meat Market made it appear as though the whole of the Calton was ablaze, behind those flames, another giant wall of fire arose like the surprise Persian cavalry at Thermopylae supporting their infantry. Up, up, and further up the flames from the rafters, ceilings and furniture of the houses in Cochrane street, Gloucester street and Hoey street rose to fill the sky as though burning down Heaven above.

  Every head in the crowd tilted back. Some of the men clasped their hands over their eyes while women said the Rosary and clutched their small children tightly to their skirts. At the front of the crowd, Young Father Flaherty made the sign of the cross in the sky, slipped his arms through those of McLane and Arab and led the crowd, praying:

  ‘‘Yea Though I Walk Through The Valley of the Shadow of Death …’

  ~~~o~~~

  End of Part Six

  Part Seven : Public Private Partnerships

  Chapter 40

  Through the fifteen full length triple-glazed windows of the Chalet, the diamond white snow which blanketed the mountains on all sides provided the perfect backdrop for the bright orange flames now leaping inside the clever German glass wood-burner. Out in the vast stainless steel kitchen, a small troupe of butler, footmen, chefs and washer-women had opened up the temperature controlled boxes of lobster, the vacuum packs of Scottish venison, smoked hams and round cheeses. One wooden box with a specially drawn impression of the extension to the Glasgow motorway with three five-storey glass shopping malls around it contained twenty jars of marmalade; hand-made in a Brother’s factory in the old Kingdom of Fife. Stocks of Scotch whisky and French brandies were in easy constant supply to keep the six decanters filled to the brim.

  Last to arrive was the guest who’d be staying the night. Waving from the seaplane as it circled for a landing onto a deep carpet of snow, cocooned in the private plane for the last few hours, he might not have heard the good news about the fires in Glasgow being shown on TV. When the pilot taxied the plane right up to the Chalet, the two hosts waved Hello. That to-the-door service was a nice touch, they thought. As the tall guest stepped out onto a mat the pilot had laid for his convenience, he ducked his bald head, just in case.

  Facing east and shaking hands as only they knew how, the guest was officially received:

  ‘Welcome Brother. Welcome indeed. How was your flight?’

  Heriot Pembroke QC had of course skied in the Swiss Alps before, but that was many years ago and although he’d stayed with friends of his parents, their chalet paled in comparison to this mansion on the snow.

  ‘The flight was fine; exciting really. Thank you Brothers, for inviting me.’

  Looking over his hosts’ shoulders, Heriot Pembroke filled his lungs with that crystal clear mountain air that smells faintly of large piles of money and can only be breathed in Switzerland:

  ‘What a glorious scene. We just don’t get snow like this in Scotland anymore.’

  Upstairs, four more old well-dressed white-haired men awaited this lawyer from Parliament House in Edinburgh. Every one of them a Brother, via their secretive banks down on the shores of Lake Geneva, between them they’d invested over a hundred billion American dollars in projects around the world. So this six hundred million dollar project was more of a small favour to one of their number who’d been impressed with a Brother from the Loyal Orange Lodge in a part of Glasgow called Bridgeton whom he’d met in Utah.

  Shaking hands all round, Heriot Pembroke was careful not to give the slightest hint of being the next in line to become Master of the Loyal Edinburgh Lodge. After receiving the instructions for this consultation, so unconventionally delivered, he’d thought it best that he attend solely as legal counsel advising on a purely local matter; and leave Lodge politics to the clients.

  Although he’d spent over twenty years ascending the slippery pole of advancement in Parliament House, throughout the pre-prandial drinks, the dinner itself and now relaxing with whisky and cigars, the Edinburgh QC couldn’t remember a group of Brothers who were so collectively cold. One never spoke. Not a single word. Another never cracked his scowl, while another’s face seemed to be moulded into a hard plastic smile. Even the two he’d met in Glasgow made no mention of that meeting. The oldest and fattest, who had a strange criss-cross French American accent, seemed to be in charge and it was he who got down to the nitty gritty. Leaning back and pushing away the dessert plate he’d scraped clean, now puffing on a thick cigar he made his opening move:

  ‘So, Monsieur Pembroke. I think this Meester Baron McLane of yours has beaten you twice now. You know, as bankers we always like to win. What was is it your Mister Shakespeare said? Ah, yes. One setback is unfortunate, but two begins to look like carelessness. Non?’

  Happy to be on territory closer to what he was used to, Pembroke merely smiled back, leaned down and o
pened the big Gladstone bag at his feet. Dropping a thick bundle of papers onto the table, at his own speed he pulled on the pink cotton legal tape, undoing the bow. Looking over his half-rimmed glasses, he caught the arrow sent to wound him:

  ‘Oh I think we’ve had a few small but important wins in this matter. Not least in Parliament House, wouldn’t you say? The small time legal matters to which you refer were mere skirmishes. Nothing to worry about. The Glasgow Sheriff Court thing in particular was nothing really. It was low level law and the outcome actually gave us ammunition for later; should we wish to use it. As to the amendment to our Bill in the House of Lords, I’m happy to say that we had two plans there. McLane and Mayfield might think they don’t need to worry themselves with anything happening in London for some months. What they don’t know is that our Bill in the Commons and the Lords was in fact a decoy. Designed to lead them into a false sense of security for months to come.’

  At the sound of something that compared with their own standards of scheming, even the one who’d not spoken a word turned his head with the others. But still, only the fat one spoke:

  ‘A decoy? Really? That’s very clever. So, would you care to reveal this plan to us Brother Pembroke?’

  Lifting about a quarter of the bundle off the top and laying it aside, Pembroke picked off the top sheet which all could see bore the heading ‘Secretary of State for Trade and Commerce’ and showed it around. Laying out sheet after sheet in front of him, Pembroke continued until he reached Section 128 Subsection 72 (iii) (h) and pointed to a little known provision in the law of Public Private Partnerships concerning discretion:

  ‘Please allow me to read you the piece of law we’re actually relying on and which, as we speak, is being used by our Brother Randal. I think most of you only know him as the Chairman of Glasgow City Council Planning Committee. Of course, two of you know him very well as this consortium’s silent partner in the development of these shopping Malls.

  Now. Subsection 72 (iii) (h) provides: In the course of a Public Private Partnership, the Secretary of State for Trade and Commerce may, if in his opinion there is likely to be undue delay in implementing the plans of a Local Council to proceed with a development of national importance, make an Order in Council superseding any local law which he considers impedes the said development.

  Gentlemen, I know that must have sounded like a long and complex piece of British legalese. But please note the use of the word ‘may’. That modal verb gives the Secretary of State for Trade and Commerce complete discretion to give the Green Light for any Public Private Partnership. That very useful little piece of law is the reason why I’ve structured your options and capital investments in the way that I have. If you’d like more detail, then you can find them set out in the document bearing the title PPP 2018 / Glw / MoWay / ComDev. I even wrote the title myself in expectation of this day. The passage of our amended Subsection 72 (iii) (h) last month through both the House of Commons and the House of Lords was treated as a mere technicality giving a sensible extension of power to a Secretary of State. It’s what most MPs call a ‘Yawn law’. Just something to make the Members yawn at some late hour at night in an almost empty House. Of course, to be useful to this particular development, that Secretary of State must be sympathetic towards this investment.’

  Pausing for a little dramatic effect, Heriot Pembroke QC could tell from the flickers of expectation on the stony faces of these Swiss Bankers that he was about to earn the enormous fee which his Clerk would send for payment in the next few days:

  ‘Gentlemen, I’m very happy to tell you that exactly the Order in Council you need was made last night in London, by a Brother of ours who is a Minister of Her Majesty’s Government.’

  ~~~o~~~

  Chapter 41

  Down in the very bowels of Parliament House, McLane had stood chest to chest with convicted men in these dog boxes many times before, but not for a few years now. What with his burgeoning commercial practice, the weight of being Chairman of the International Bar Association’s division on international child abduction and his secretive work as Scottish National Security Commissioner, he barely had time to appear in jury trials in the High Court of Justiciary. He’d almost forgotten the power of these solid slimy walls so thick they could hold up seven stone storeys above them and keep for ever the whispered secrets they’d heard over five centuries. While in here, there was no world outside. In here, in the blackness there were only two things: the legal strategy which the Queen’s Counsel advised and what the man facing a life without ever again seeing even a blade of grass blow in the wind agreed to. When McLane heard the lower court lawyer’s plea on the phone, this case had touched his sense that a great injustice was about to befall an innocent man; or at least a man who was no angel; but who was certainly innocent of the most serious crime on his indictment. And so it had proved to be.

  As their eyes adjusted to the darkness, with less than ten inches now between their faces, McLane thought the sound of the turnkey locking them in created an even closer bond between Queen’s Counsel and accused than there had been up in court. When the jury returned their Not Guilty verdict to the charge of murder, that bond he remembered so well from other clients crystallised with this one: for ever.

  Here in the silent darkness, he wasn’t exactly expecting the words to be said. Sometimes they weren’t. Only when his tall strong rough client pulled back his elbow, straightened his hand and drew a lot of breath through his nose, was McLane sure that the offer was about to be made. Before the words were uttered, in a split second McLane flashed his mind back to the Calton Bar, where Tucker had shown him a photo of that model in Randal’s ante office, all painted red and with stabs and slashes through the cardboard structure representing the very tenement houses where he and Big Joe Mularkey had grown up. Firmly shaking hands, the bond between lawyer and client was complete. After McLane’s truly brilliant jury speech up in court, it was now time for the client to do the talking:

  ‘Mr McLane. You’re my main man. You know that. And I mean for ever. I owe you fifteen years, Mr McLane. Fifteen fuckin’ extra years they bastards were gonnie gi’ me. Twenty years, you said we were lookin’ at. Twenty fuckin’ years! An’ you got me five for a measly aidin’ an’ abettin’ without malice aforethought. Amazin’ Mr McLane. The way ye’ dealt wi’ that auld bastard of a judge an’ spoke tae that jury! Ye’r a fuckin’ genius in that court, man. I’m no’ kiddin’. Ye did brilliant. Honest to God.’

  Saying nothing in reply, McLane dropped his eyelids only once. From the honest intensity pulsing through this granite man’s hand into his own he could sense what was coming; and it didn’t take long. In the dim light coming through a crack in the watch slit, as the words left his mouth, the face of Baron McLane of Calton’s latest client could have been chiselled in stone:

  ‘So, Mr McLane. In return for them long … fucking long … fifteen free years, here’s what Ah have for you. Anybody. Anywhere. Anytime. D’ye understand me, Mr McLane?’

  The higher he rose in the Faculty of Advocates, the less McLane thought he’d ever need to call on such promises. He’d always relied on Big Joe Mularkey and Arab for such assistance and it was always provided when he was either at some posh dinner table in Edinburgh’s New town or pleading in a court in Parliament House. But Big Joe was now a grandfather and a prominent nightclub owner. Neither did he wish to see Arab take such risks any more. So as his client gripped his hand in his human vice, McLane drew breath to reply. But rather than accept outright, he merely nodded and whispered:

  ‘Well, thanks for that. You never know. You just never know.’

  ~~~o~~~

  Chapter 42

  Being a Saturday night, the Calton Bar had a few regulars in, but a lot less than before this news broke about demolishing the whole of the Calton. Absent were those who used to bring in their wives, sons and daughters-in-law for a good night out. With so much uncertainty in the air, every penny was a prisoner. All things considered, Lenny’s t
akings were down by nearly sixty percent.

  Squeezed onto benches around two tables shoved into Tucker’s alcove, was a huddle consisting of McLane, Big Joe Mularkey, Arab, Tucker and Auld Faither; but this was neither a Called Gaitherin’ nor a meeting of the Calton Residents' Association. This meeting was strictly impromptu and there was only one item on the agenda. Supping alone in the Wee Nook at the far end of the bar on beers he wasn’t paying for, Tam Fraser was quietly awaiting instructions. Behind the Bar, Lenny was keeping a discreet eye on a few strangers who’d come in about half an hour before; who didn’t look like the usual students or visiting football fans who just wanted to slam back a few drams and post pictures of themselves drinking in the infamous Calton Bar. Thinking that he might get a better insight into their purpose, Lenny lifted the bar-flap and walked over to their table:

  ‘Another round boys? Pints and whiskies again is it?’

  But just as Lenny was clearing away, the men politely refused, stood and buttoned up their coats. They left without a fuss and as he watched the swing doors close, Lenny was certain they hadn’t noticed Big Joe’s eyes dip. After feeling under the table for anything these guys might have left behind, such as a magnet stuck to the table’s iron under-frame, Lenny carried away their three pint glasses and three whisky tumblers. Laying them on the bar, Lenny was again sure that no-one but Big Joe saw his right thumb lift about half an inch.

  Lifting his glass of milk and tapping Auld Faither’s whisky tumbler, McLane downed a big mouthful and blew out a lot of breath:

  ‘OK Tuck. Let’s see it again.’

  Turning the tablet round so that both McLane and Big Joe could see, Tucker opened the first picture and was about to zoom into the part in question when McLane stopped him: