The House_Dark Urban Scottish Crime Story

by John Mayer

  Somewhere in the melee that was the Calton Bar the night before, Tucker half remembered promising Jean that he’d look up the internet and see if he could find this wee Elsie Tanner. The name rang a bell, he’d said. According to old Ma Sorkin, she came back to the Calton but didn’t last long. Somebody had told her that Elsie had got married, but after coming back from Ireland, hardly any of them found men to marry. So that could’ve just been gossip.

  With the pigeons fed and in their coops, sporting the ‘salt and pepper’ beard he’d let grow for nearly a month, as the number 32 bus approached George Square, Tucker hopped off two stops early. Over his tea and toast, he’d had a go on his iPad but couldn’t find anything of interest. It was a lovely crisp morning, so he’d decided to have a look for himself.

  Whistling and looking mostly at the pavement while shuffling along in his usual Glasgow swagger, but for the swish of the bottom of the black cassock, Tucker might’ve passed him by. Looking up, it was the white beard that first caught his eye. However, above that facial hair, the eyes and the forehead were unmistakeable. Slowing, Tucker’s mouth involuntarily dropped open. Unused to people staring at his mode of dress, but for that wide-eyed look straight at him, the good priest might too have passed by. Approaching each other with outstretched hands, the two men gripped with the affection only childhood memories can fire up:

  ‘Father! It’s you. My God in Heaven … Oh, sorry Father, I didn’t mean …’

  ‘Oh Tucker man, it’s quite alright. I say it myself all the time. Sweet Mary and Joseph, it’s good to see you. How are ye’ fella?’

  That slight Irish twang caught Tucker’s attention, but it was nothing. He’d been away so long, that was bound to have crept in: ‘Man, I’m good. Well, ye’ know, in the circumstances. Ye’ll have heard what they’re tryin’ to do to the Calton?’

  ‘Aye, that I have, Tucker.’ Putting down the same old brown suitcase he’d carried the day he left the Calton, Father Sean Mularkey opened his arms. Not used to public displays of affection, Tucker nevertheless flung his arms round the good priest and hugged for all he was worth:

  ‘Look, Tucker, man. I’m on my way to the Calton to see my mother. That child Ababuo McLane just called me. Right out of the blue! Would you believe it? Bless their souls for adopting her. Where are you going?’

  ‘Well, that’s a coincidence. I’m actually on a wee errand you might say, for your mother. She’s trying to find an old pal and I got nowhere online. They only showed the latest census. So I’m on my way to the Registrar of Births Deaths and Marriages Office. Are ye’ stayin’ in Glasgow a wee while?’

  Nodding deeply, Fr Sean touched his nose twice: ‘I am that, probably. Now you mustn’t say anything to anyone, but Father Flaherty is of an age where a parish as big as the Calton is getting a wee bit too much for him. The Bishop is thinking over his request to move to a country parish back in Ireland where another priest is seriously ill and my request to replace Father Flaherty over here. But not a word to anyone! OK?’

  ‘OK Father. It’s a deal. Look, I’d better be on my way and let you get your bus. It’s been great to see you. Really. Will ye’ be in the Calton Bar at all while ye’r here?’

  Cracking a broad smile that revealed the scarred line down his cheek where his beard couldn’t grow, with a loud laugh and a light in his eye, Fr Sean didn’t mind who heard him:

  ‘Oh aye. Ye’ll find I’m not like Father Flaherty. I like to live right in amongst my parishioners. I love the craick in the old pubs and I know my whiskies as well as any man. Ye’ll see me there alright. Just as soon as I’ve been up to see Jean.’

  Now walking along and looking up at the sky, Tucker shook his head in disbelief: ‘Aye, big fella. Just when we a’ think it’s over, ye’ send us somethin’ … or in this case, somebody, to lift us up. Aye, ye’ work in mysterious ways, right enough.’

  The handles on the high bronze four-panelled doors of the Registrar’s Office were carved with the tree, the fish, the bird and the bell: the four symbols of the City of Glasgow. Tucker had been in this building a few times before, but this morning, having met Fr Sean on his way back to the Calton, honestly, getting home was the primary thing on his mind. His online search had turned up nothing and Tucker was mainly here just to be able to look Jean in the eye and say he’d been there. Anything else would be a bonus.

  A new ticket numbering system had been introduced since his last search here. Twirling number 12 around his fingers, Tucker let his thoughts meander back in time. He’d always been a really nice boy, quite the opposite from Big Joe. Meek and mild wouldn’t be putting too fine a point on it. But after that card game! Oh my God! McLane was only about 14 but he was the dealer. If he hadn’t jumped in, Sean was a dead man. While setting up his return moves, Big Joe had been like a guy holding a cliff edge with his toes and leaning out into a hurricane. And once he started taking revenge, he nearly set the city on fire. That scar may now be covered by a beard, but Tucker wondered if the fear and horror of that day had ever left the mind of young Sean Mularkey. It was a wonder and a mystery how someone treated like that could turn into a priest who lived for forgiveness and peace among his fellow man:

  ‘Number 12’ flashed the red sign.

  Tucker was glad to see that despite some modernisation, they’d kept the broad old polished wooden desks and that the clerks still wore cardigans and tweed skirts. But for the computer on her desk, the clerk in front of him could have left home and come to work in the 1950s. Putting his ticket on the table, Tucker slipped his iPad from his pocket and turned it towards the clerk:

  ‘Good mornin’. I’ve been lookin’ online for someone, but I could only see the latest census. So I didn’t find what I was lookin’ for. I was hopin’ that I could look at the actual entry in the register. Or maybe you could look at it for me. Would that be possible?’

  ‘Let me see.’ Moving her finger over Tucker’s screen, the clerk nodded. Well I agree. There’s not much there of any import at all. I’m sorry about that. The data input was contracted out to a private company and I’m afraid the online register isn’t everything it’s supposed to be.’

  Pushing Tucker’s iPad back towards him just half an inch or so, the clerk reached into a drawer and took out a bunch of old iron keys:

  ‘Alas, for certain searches, the private company also mixed up quite a lot of entries, so in some cases computerisation has resulted in more work, not less. There’s no-one else waiting, so let’s have a look down the corridor.’

  Unlocking a heavy oak door, the clerk held it open for Tucker: ‘Please, come with me. In the old days the public weren’t allowed down here, but we find they know best what they’re looking for, so we now bring people down here. What was that reference?’

  ‘Erm, SCGW71/04/8’

  The buzz of old neon lights above the long corridor of angle-iron shelves reminded Tucker of the ceiling in the hospital when he’d had his hernia operation. Only wide enough for them to walk in single file, thousands and thousands of cardboard boxes, all with hand written references on the front, formed the walls of this corridor. Dropping her glasses onto her nose, the clerk ran her finger up three boxes, then stopped:

  ‘Now. GW is Glasgow. 71 is 1971 … Ah, here we are. 04 is for April. Good.’

  Hauling out a heavy box with three folding sides, she carried the thing like a trooper up to the end: ‘Follow me. Just up here.’

  At a desk still bearing a Bakelite sign saying ‘Staff Only’ she dumped down the box and lifted two chairs away from the wall: ‘Please, have a seat.’

  Looking over her glasses, the clerk pursed her lips and explained: ‘The last number in your reference - number 8 - refers to the filing inside this box. However, I regret to say that I have little confidence that the eighth entry from the top will be the correct one.’

  Licking her middle fingertip, she ignored the Memo from the Health and Safety Executive about spreading infected DNA onto the papers and flicked through:

  ‘
Ha! Wonder of wonders. It’s here.’

  Lifting out the hand written entry, while reading it, she made a face which told Tucker that she’d seen something out of the ordinary:

  ‘Something wrong?’

  Laying the paper on the desk, the clerk removed her glasses and looked at Tucker: ‘No. Well, not exactly. It’s just that this Entry is hand written and I’m sure I’ve only seen this hand once or twice before.’

  Pointing at the ceiling, the clerk widened her eyes: ‘Actually I think it’s the hand of someone very senior, but he’s long retired now.’

  Turning the paper towards Tucker, the clerk’s face looked quizzical. As Tucker began to read from the top, she drummed her fingers: ‘Is it what you hoped to find?’

  Reading the names, Tucker nodded: ‘Well, yes. I was given to believe that this Elsie Tanner married and here she is getting married. The year is about right, so that’s a help. And she changes her name to her husband’s name too. So that’s all quite normal.’

  Stroking his chin, Tucker looked straight at the clerk: ‘I wonder if you could answer a question without taking a lot of trouble. Could you?’

  ‘Well I don’t know until you ask it. So ask away.’

  ‘Thanks. I was just wondering. The SC in the reference is for Scotland, I suppose.’

  ‘Yes, it is.’

  ‘And GW is, as you said, stands for Glasgow.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘OK. I’m wondering if you can tell where the husband came from.’

  ‘Oh no. We’d have to find where this man was born and then cross refer that to this Entry. Randal is a fairly ordinary name. It’s common in both Scotland and England.’

  He was breathing a little more erratically now, which couldn’t have been caused by anything but seeing this information. With her long years of experience the clerk had seen surprise on people’s faces many times. But this man didn’t look surprised; he looked astonished and she began to wonder about the intentions of this searcher; but that wasn’t part of the job. Tucker had stroked his top lip and crossed his legs: ‘Hmm. I see. Yes, I suppose it is quite common. Is there anywhere I could find out how many there are?’

  ‘Well yes, here. But we’d have to ask the computer to count how many living Randals there are in the UK right now.’

  ‘OK. Would that take a long time?’

  While the clerk was answering Tucker to the effect that he’d need to fill out a new search form, something caught her eye. Reaching out her hand, she asked: ‘Excuse me, but could I please have that back for a moment?’

  Handing back the Entry, Tucker was beginning to feel the rise of excitement. What had started as a favour to Jean might now be taking on a whole new dimension. Ignoring the paper, the clerk had gone quiet as she rifled through the remainder of the box. Lifting out half of the contents, which must have been eighty or ninety registrations, she dug deeper until she reached the bottom. Wringing her hands by her side was her way of dusting them:

  ‘Err, can I ask you what’s going on?’

  Lifting the paper from the desk, she pulled off a paper clip: ‘I’m sorry, but these boxes are supposed to be sacrosanct. On each file there’s not supposed to be anything other than the Entry itself. That’s the point of the system. I was just checking to see if any other Entries had been contaminated.’

  Holding the paper which had been clipped to Elsie Tanner’s marriage certificate, the clerk nearly spat: ‘Grrr. This is the kind of thing that makes my blood boil. Another Entry just clipped to the back of this one. I despair! I really do.’

  Hoping that this might give him something else to tell Jean, Tucker tilted his head and asked: ‘Is it something important?’

  Slamming this Supplementary Entry on the table, the clerk leaned back into her chair: ‘I’ll be reporting this. An Adoption certificate attached out of place to a marriage certificate. That’s tantamount to a crime in this building. I’ve absolutely no idea how that could have happened. I’m so sorry you’ve had to see this shambles, Mr …’

  ‘King. Charles King. Don’t worry. Look, is it possible I could get copies of all these? I mean the Supplementary Entry thing too? Would that be all right?’

  ~~~o~~~

  Chapter 56

  Shouting at the tops of their voices, every wide-eyed open-mouthed man in the Calton Bar was focused on the screen. Some waving their slips in the air, some crushing them in their fists, as one they sent immeasurable encouragement across hundreds of miles to a racecourse in the south of England: ‘Come on ya wee beauty! Get in there, get in. That’s it. Make your move! Don’t be frightened. Use the whip!’ all came out as a racket loud enough to wake the dead. When ‘Pride of Eirenn’ romped past the post a full length clear and at odds of 6:1 against, arms were flung around every blood brother in the Bar. Even though it wasn’t yet mid-day, every man jack of them knew that this was going to be a long one.

  ‘Lenny: Another whisky for Father Sean! came the cry from well over two dozen men.

  Waving his hands across his face in mock surrender, the good priest was already red-faced, he was on his second steak pie from Tommy Sorkin’s bakery, he’d loosened his collar and was telling stories about life as a Parish Priest in old Ireland. Well ahead of the game, Lenny had already pinned up a sheet with a list of names noting who’d bought him doubles and who’d bought singles: all of which were still in the bottle.

  With the doors slamming as men left to cross the street to collect their winnings and their women coming in to join them for a celebratory drink, no-one paid the slightest bit of notice to Tucker as he slipped in to his alcove and raised three sideways fingers towards Lenny.

  Bringing over the biggest dram he’d poured Tucker in a long time, Lenny laid it down and paused: ‘Pride of Eirenn, eh? And Six to One, too. I didn’t see ye’ in earlier, Tuck. Did ye’ get yer money on to the big winner?’

  Lifting his whisky and downing a finger and a half of it in one slow gulp, Tucker heaved a huge sigh: ‘Well Lenny, if ye’ mean the ‘Pride of Eirenn’ then the answer is no. I didn’t have time to get a bet on. I’ve been erm, in the city doin’ a wee favour for Jean.’

  ‘Aw, too bad, Tuck. Six to One, that’s a big one. But erm, if I may say so Tuck, ye’ look like a man wi’ somethin’ awfully serious on his mind. Is everythin’ OK?

  Nodding and lifting his whisky glass once more, Tucker began to feel the familiar warmth of the pride of Skye filling his chest: ‘Aye, everythin’s fine, I think. I might know a bit more in a few hours. So could ye’ keep a few of Tommy’s pies to one side for me, Lenny? Say, half a dozen. And could ye’ bring me another one of these?’

  When Tucker lowered his eyes and reached into his side pocket for his iPad, Lenny took the hint and left him to it. Lowering the bar-flap, Lenny glanced over to the alcove where Tucker now had a pencil in his hand and seemed to be comparing some sheets of paper with something on his tablet. To Lenny, Tucker ordering very big whiskies to calm his nerves, missing the bet of the month and asking for six pies to be kept aside for a few hours could mean only one thing. McLane and Big Joe Mularkey were on their way, but one of them - and that would be McLane - would be delayed, probably in a court in Parliament House.

  All day Tucker sat sinking straight whisky after whisky. He did have a bite of one of Arab’s pies, but waved away a whole one. He’d gone to the toilet several times and even at just before three o’clock, he’d gone for a walk. In all his years after winning the Calton Bar in that big hand of cards, Lenny had never seen Tucker go for a walk. He’d left the iPad on the alcove table, he’d forgotten his coat and had to come back for it and he’d come in no more communicative then when he left. Father Sean was still holding court at half past five, when the front swing doors swung open. Tucker’s reaction was that of a bullet from a gun. Almost pushing McLane and Big Joe back out the door, Tucker was a man possessed.

  Over Tucker’s head, the sight of Sean surrounded by a circle of men and talking with his hands the way he always had
, Big Joe’s face lit up. Lifting Tucker under his armpits, all smiles Big Joe was a man who couldn’t be happier:

  ‘You’re too late, Tuck! I’ve seen him. My God, there he is. Let me past, man.’

  But McLane could see that Tucker wasn’t himself and laid a hand on Big Joe’s arm: ‘Easy Joe. I don’t think this is about Sean. We can see him in a minute or two. Do you need a word in private, Tuck?

  The relief at their arrival was spilling out of Tucker’s every pore: ‘Aye. We’ll get no peace in there. So I think that would be best. Until we know what we’re talkin’ about. Could we go round the corner to Bella’s?’