I’d forgotten; been away too long. ‘What were the numbers?’
‘We’ll never know if it was fourteen to one or eight to seven. The court won’t say.’
I sat stunned. ‘But surely they can’t hang a man if eight think he’s guilty and seven don’t. Can you? Surely?’
‘Oh yes they can. They do. And they will. Unless we can find something new to put in our plea.’ She waited for me to say something smart.
‘Any chance of a cup of tea?’
‘I’ll see if I can disturb the sleeping dragon out there.’ She got up and went out. I heard a brief, sharp exchange, and then she was back.
‘It’ll come. Eventually. I hope you’re not allergic to strychnine. Now, where were we?’
‘At the risk of being boring, can I ask you again if you think he did it? I haven’t seen Hugh since our teens. We parted on bad terms. I’ve been dragged up here to try to help him. As of now, I’ve seen nothing, heard nothing that suggests he’s other than guilty. I’d just like to know what you think. You, more than anyone, will have sifted the evidence. I need some… encouragement.’
She pulled her glasses down her nose. Her clear blue eyes focussed fixedly on mine. ‘I think Hugh Donovan is innocent. OK?’
‘OK. Until proven otherwise.’ I took out my notepad. ‘You’d better start with the trial. What was the evidence?’
She opened the file at a document with tab on it. ‘This is a summary of the trial report. Not that I need it.’ She looked up at me and held up her left hand with the fingers and thumb splayed open. She closed down her pinkie with her right hand. ‘First there are the clothes with the blood on them.’
‘The child’s clothes?’
‘The child’s and Hugh’s.’
‘Both of them?’ Damn.
She nodded. ‘The child’s shirt and short trousers, simmet and pants. No socks or shoes. He was playing barefoot. A lot of them do over there.’ She nodded towards the badlands of the Gorbals. ‘Saves the shoes for school. The clothes were found rolled up in a bucket under Hugh’s sink in the flat. A stupid place to hide them. But there they were. And the blood matches the boy’s. A rhesus positive.’
‘Common enough round here, as I recall.’
‘Agreed. But they were wrapped inside a shirt of Hugh’s.’ She raised her hand to stop me asking how they knew it was Hugh’s. ‘Inside the collar was a label. They’d put it on in the hospital so the patients wouldn’t lose their clothes. It said “Cpl H. Donovan, RAF”.’
Of course. They’d done it with mine when I was convalescing in Alex.
She went on, ‘He says one of his shirts was stolen.’
We both raised our eyebrows. ‘What else?’
She sighed and pressed down a second finger. ‘The murder weapon. A knife wrapped up in the same bucket. It had the boy’s blood on it too. A bread knife, so the serrations held the stains very nicely thank you.’
‘Prints?’
‘A smudged set of Hugh’s on the handle.’
I winced. ‘You’ve seen his hands. He couldn’t hold a knife.’
‘The prosecution implied he could if he wanted to. The jury seemed to agree.’
‘Anything else? Witnesses swearing they saw him killing the boy?’
‘Nearly.’ She lowered a third finger. ‘Knowledge of the crime scene. Hugh knew a couple of things that only the murderer or his accomplice could know. The number of stab wounds: seven. That the body was naked. And that there were signs of strangulation.’
‘Christ.’
A fourth finger dropped. ‘There were also traces of heroin in the boy’s body.’
‘Dear God! But that doesn’t tie the murder to Hugh,’ I said desperately.
She raised one eyebrow. ‘But you can imagine what a meal the prosecution made of it. This junkie forcing himself on an innocent child. Turning him into a ravening dope fiend like himself. The jury’s eyes were rolling around like a game of bools.’
‘Did they know that Hugh used to go out with her?’ I choked on her name.
‘The boy’s mother, Fiona? Yes. It just gave the jury something else to nibble away at. Jilted lover, betrayal of the woman who befriended him etc. Hugh said you knew her too?
Oh, yes, Fiona. I knew you. I nodded. ‘Is that it?’
She turned her extended thumb down, leaving a clenched fist. ‘Just one more teeny wee thing. He confessed.’
TEN
I rubbed my face with both hands. Short of a Pathe newsreel showing Hugh murdering the boy, this case was as watertight as a Clyde steamer.
‘To all five?’
‘Just Rory.’
‘Duress?’ I tried.
‘Do you mean is it likely he was forced to confess? Yes. I have absolutely no doubt. Round here, your former colleagues are not known for their compassion towards child molesters, far less child murderers. When I first saw Hugh, his face – such as it is – was badly bruised and so was his body. Resisting arrest, they said. By the time he got to trial the marks had pretty well vanished. And of course the police claimed they’d used kid gloves.’
I nodded. It wasn’t new. I’d seen plenty of interrogations that involved gentle persuasion with a truncheon or a boot. Disillusionment was one of the reasons I joined the army; not that I found many choirboys among my fellow NCOs.
‘Did he retract his confession in court?’
She leaned towards me, and shook her head. ‘Not as such. Hugh was – is – a sick man. Half the time he doesn’t know what day it is. They gave him some painkillers during the trial but either too little or sometimes too much. And there was something about him. A sense of fatality. He just wanted it all over with. The trial. The pain. His life.’
‘The poor wee bastard.’
‘That he is,’ she said. We were silent for a moment.
A thought struck me. ‘ Were there any witnesses? Anyone hear anything? Hugh says he lived up a close. Rented a single-end next door to a family. A mother and four kids. What did they have to say?’
She shook her head. ‘The police took a statement from them at the time, just after his arrest. They said they saw nothing, heard nothing.’
‘Did you question them? At the trial?’
She sighed. ‘They weren’t at the trial. They’d vanished.’
‘Vanished? How do you mean? There were five of them, were there not?’
‘Seems they were evicted a few weeks before the trial started. No forwarding address. No one knows where they went. It happens. The police say they exhausted all lines of inquiry. Convenient eh?’
‘Smelly.’
There was a tinkling of china behind me and then the door was bashed back. The receptionist came in bearing a tray and a grudge. She plonked it down with an unnecessary clatter and ‘Yer tea, miss’ and returned to her lair. For the first time Samantha Campbell and I smiled at each other. It made her look younger.
‘What do you think then?’ she asked.
‘I think we’re in bother.’ I slurped at my tea. ‘Can I read the trial report myself?’
‘Help yourself.’ She swivelled the papers round to face me. ‘I’ll leave you to it. I’ll be back in an hour. I have another client to see.’
I leaned over the desk and began reading and flicking through the papers. She’d summarised it well. It all stacked up. The verdict seemed a foregone conclusion. And yet, and yet, the very neatness and comprehensiveness of the proof was too good to be true. If I’d wanted to build a procurator fiscal’s case I could hardly have done better. Was it just too pat? Why had Hugh not got rid of the bloodstained clothes? Or the knife?
Then there was the question of when the boy had died. He’d been missing for a week. Six and a half days. Last seen on the Monday around teatime with his pals, then found at eight thirty the following Monday morning by the coalman come to deliver some more bags to the coal cellars behind the tenements. The police pathologist reckoned he’d been dead for two to three days. There was very little blood in the coal cellar. It was li
kely that the boy had died elsewhere and been dumped. So where had Hugh – or the murderer – hidden the boy for three or four days? Surely not in his single room? The police had searched it early on. Could he have kept the kid quiet for four days? Not a whimper? Using the heroin?
Reading the detectives’ reports I recognised several names. The Chief Superintendent in charge was George Muncie. I remembered him from before the war, a big florid man, with red hair and a temper to match and a high opinion of himself. He ran my old Eastern Division as his personal fiefdom. Reporting to him was the case officer, Detective Chief Inspector Willie Silver. He must have got over his drink problem to have risen from detective sergeant in ’39. Or maybe he’d got better at hiding it. As Sam Campbell had put it, ‘Glasgow’s finest’.
‘Anything?’
I turned as the lawyer came back to her office. ‘I need to get below the words here. I need to speak to people, find out what the forensic boys thought rather than just what they wrote. I don’t like this gap between the boy’s abduction and his death. Where was he? Did you ask Hugh?’
‘Of course. So did the prosecution. And the judge. He had no answer.’
‘Well, I guess he wouldn’t, if he didn’t do it.’
‘The prosecution just claimed he was covering up his bestiality or at best was in a drug-induced stupor. Either way he was a sick animal for whom hanging would be a mercy.’
‘This heroin habit of his. Did they ever find his supplier?’
‘I don’t think they looked. Is that relevant?’
‘I have no idea. It’s just a loose end. Another part of the jigsaw. Hugh didn’t have contact with many folk. One of them was the supplier. It might give us a picture of his movements that week.’
‘Anything else?’
‘Witnesses? Friends?
‘The only one who seemed to stick up for him was his priest, Father Cassidy. He kept telling Hugh he believed he was innocent. But even his faith seemed to waver as the case went on. But he still goes to see him at Barlinnie. He might be able to point you at other people who knew Hugh. Including the pusher. I’ll give you his address.’
She scribbled his name and address on a sheet of paper, tore it off and handed it to me. I looked at it. She was staring at me.
‘What?’
‘My turn. From what you’ve just read, what’s your verdict?’
‘If I was on the jury? And only using the evidence? Guilty.’
‘But?’
‘As an ex copper with a suspicious mind, it’s a little too watertight. I’ve never seen such an open and shut case.’
‘Can you suspend judgement?’
‘I’m not sure why.’
‘Will you at least stay and help?’
I thought I’d hardened myself to pleading eyes. But reading the trial papers had set up an itch I needed to scratch.
‘I suppose it does. For a few days anyway. I’ll need to get the rest of this week off from my boss at the London Bugle.’ I was pretty sure I could make up the time by working late or weekends, as long as I could knock up five hundred words of fearless crime reporting to keep my editor interested. I had a couple of half worked out ideas that didn’t require more research. I could write about Hugh’s predicament but it would have little interest for London readers. Besides, I’d just tie myself in knots wondering whose side I was on. Little chance of journalistic objectivity. And it would feel like I was using him.
‘Just use the phone here.’
‘I’m also going to need digs for a few nights. Any suggestions?’
She looked at me coolly for a long few seconds.
‘Do you snore? Get drunk and fall down stairs? Leave clothes on the floor? Leave toilet seats up?’
‘I can’t swear to the loo seat, but no to the rest. Though I’m not teetotal. Is this a temperance hotel you’re suggesting?’
‘I couldn’t make that claim. My folks left me their house. It’s fairly big. There’s a spare room and bathroom. In truth, there’s a choice.’
Was she just trying to make up for the initial brusqueness? I doubted it was animal passion. No need to lock my door at night. She didn’t look much like a man-eater. I hesitated. I didn’t want to be under constant inspection by this tough spinster who looked as if she had a preference for cold baths and hard beds. Cold beds, certainly.
‘Neighbours?’
She stood up, rifled through her bag and placed a key on the table. ‘It won’t be the first time I’ve scandalised them. If your reputation can stand it, so can mine.’
Scandalised the West End? Not washing her milk bottles would be enough. ‘What do you charge?’
‘Hand over your ration book and one pound ten for a week’s grub. Nothing fancy. The bed’s free, if – and only if – you come up with something new for the appeal. Deal?’
‘Miss Campbell, it’s a deal. Thank you.’
‘Call me Sam. Everyone else does. Do you prefer Doug or Douglas?
I shrugged. ‘Most just call me Brodie.’ Only my mother used my first name. And Hugh of course. I wasn’t about to get intimate with Samantha – call me Sam – Campbell.
‘Brodie it is. Are you going to try to see Father Cassidy now? Leave your case and I’ll take it back with me.’
‘Sure?’
She pointed at the corner. She scribbled her own address on a sheet of paper, together with the numbers of the trams that ran by. It was further into the city and up on the smart hillside of Kelvingrove Park. Very nice. I left her gazing at her piles of paper as though by sheer force of will they would file themselves.
ELEVEN
The Gorbals were legendary. In Kilmarnock, among the private pink and red sandstone houses that laced the better streets, the very word was synonymous with dirt and degradation. Even the working class of Kilmarnock, my class, in our roughcast council estates, gazed down with shaking head on their brethren just up the Glasgow road. The worst waster in the most run-down part of Kilmarnock clung to his illusion of being a rung above his counterpart south of the Clyde – a speculative ranking based on the size and numbers of rats patrolling the outside toilets.
For really it was only a question of scale. You’d find TB, rickets, polio and malnutrition in any sizeable Scottish town. It was just that those Glasgow wastelands stretched over a quarter of central Glasgow and were as densely packed and aromatic as a giant box of herring. And whereas Kilmarnock had its fair share of louts ready for a rammy on a Friday night, the Gorbals were infested with razor-wielding gangs like the Beehive Boys. If disease didn’t get you, a knife would. In the Kilmarnock Standard we’d read of bottle fights at the Glasgow dance halls and knew that there would be Gorbals’ thugs behind it; yet taking a tram ride through the area with your eyes part closed would have left the impression of wide streets and fine Victorian sandstone buildings, a township that should have turned out model citizens.
A closer look uncovered the deep problems: cobbled streets full of patched holes and covered in filth because the Corporation dustmen couldn’t be persuaded to visit without an armed escort; families living ten to a room; sewage systems literally bursting at the seams; and mass unemployment and illiteracy. For the last hundred years the Gorbals had been a magnet for the dispossessed. Jews fleeing Russian pogroms, Highland clearances, Irish tattie famines, and lately, Nazi persecution.
I saw the bad side first hand in the thirties when I was drafted in to help a team of detectives from Southern Division in Craigie Street track down a gang of rapists terrorising the streets. They’d wait for a gaggle of lassies to come home from the dance halls – the jigging – and pick off one of them as she entered the dark close of her tenement. There was enough amorous activity going on in every entry across the Gorbals on a Thursday night (winching night) for muffled shouts and evil grappling to go unnoticed – until the morning and the girl was found battered, weeping and bloody in the stairwell.
But my abiding memory was the stench in the worst of the closes. The smell of urine and rubbish. The
hot, steamy reek of humanity piled on top of each other in the houses themselves. Cooking, defecating, procreating, fighting: like a troop of Neanderthals.
And yet, and yet…
If you looked past the gang warfare, the drunks and the no-users there was a pride and a dignity about so many of the people, especially the women, the mothers. Aged thirty and looking sixty after rearing eight weans, she should have given up long ago. Instead she’d drag her kids to the kirk, steal a shilling from her man’s drinking money for a few ribbons for her daughter’s sixteenth birthday, stitch and mend clothes till there were more mends than original. And stand with blackened eye and bruised mouth, refusing to bring charges against her drunken husband; instead helping him home from the nick to start the cycle all over again.
And they’d dream, these stubborn women, they’d dream of one day walking out of the Gorbals. A wee place of their own, maybe down by the coast, at Irvine, or Saltcoats. Or if they couldn’t make it themselves, then maybe one of the kids would get a trade, break free, allow them to visit them in their wee hoose. That would be grand. I wondered how Fiona had got used to it. Would she stick around now?
We Protestants attended the kirk. The Catholics went to the chapel. This Gorbals chapel had been built of the same red sandstone as every other building in the area. Like them it had acquired a black sheen of soot and grime blowing in from the chimneys and the shipyards and the factories around the city. The blast furnaces of the Dixon’s Blazes just a mile away belted out enough fire and brimstone, night and day, to have smeared an inch coating over the entire Hutchesontown division every week. Even cleaned up, this chapel was no cathedral, just a simple pile of stones with a cross atop its peaked roof and some undistinguished stained-glass windows on its facade.
Inside was different. It was always a shock for a wee boy who’d grown up in the austerity of the bare wood and plaster of a Presbyterian church to be confronted with bloody icons and shimmering light from mass candles. The whole place looked like a fairy grotto to my eyes, though the scenes of blood and torment on the glowing glass screens were a far cry from Neverland. Why is suffering so attractive to the godly? We shiver at tales of Aztec priests and their penchant for gory offerings. But at the bloody heart of all Christian sects is the notion that God demanded the sacrifice of his son. As painfully as possible. I remember getting my ears clipped in Boys Brigade bible class for questioning one of the scriptures. How did it go? For God so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life. Then he arranged for him to bleed to death on a cross for the delectation of the crowds. The minister shut me up with a pat on the head and a promise that I’d understand when I was bigger. Maybe I needed more time.
The Hanging Shed Page 5