The Hanging Shed

by Gordon, Ferris,

  ‘He tried to have me killed.’

  Without another word she delved in her bag and laid a neatly rolled wax-cloth tube in my hand. I undid it and found three screwdrivers, an adjustable spanner, a small pair of pliers and two sparkplugs in my hand.

  ‘My father insisted I learn the basics,’ she defiantly.

  I inspected the locks and set to work with the screwdrivers. It took me less than a minute till the door clicked open. I pushed it ajar and stepped in. It was dark inside and I waited till my eyes had adjusted before finding the curtains and letting light flood in. There was a sink and two gas rings by one wall. A carpet and an old armchair and bookcase were the only furnishings. I crossed the small room and opened the door in the far wall.

  It led to a short hallway in the body of the chapel itself. At the end was a curtain framed by light. I pulled it open and stepped into the chapel proper, just under the pulpit and facing the empty rows. We edged forward till we were standing in front of the altar and could take in the whole view. Sam was right behind me, so that she was only a second later than me to meet Father Patrick Cassidy. We stood staring at the latest, real-life addition to the body of tragic art that surrounded us.

  Directly behind the altar and about twenty feet up, stood the gleaming tubes of organ pipes. The rope was secured at one end to the heavy leg of the altar. It rose up, taut as iron, and looped round the back of four of the pipes. It then dropped a few feet and ended in a noose about ten feet off the floor.

  Suspended from the noose was Father Patrick Cassidy, his purple face contorted in the terror-filled realisation that the Hail Marys hadn’t been enough. He had met his Maker and been found wanting. His long scrawny body dangled naked and unadorned save for the crucifix of his office round his stretched neck. The hair on his chest and groin were white as snow. His fingers were wrapped tightly round the noose suggesting he’d had second thoughts after kicking away the ladder that lay at his feet. A stink rose from beneath him where his bowels had emptied.

  I heard a soft sigh, turned and caught Samantha Campbell as she began to crumble. I half carried, half steered her to a front-row pew and made her put her head between her knees. She was breathing like a fat lad on an assault course. When I was sure she was past the point of fainting, I walked back over to examine the scene.

  Tragic, and bloody inconvenient. It wasn’t conclusive, but the case against Hugh was looking more like a colander by the day. But Cassidy’s demise fairly messed up our case unless we could convince the courts that he’d taken his life in remorse for his guilt. Hard to prove unless we could get a phone down into the flames of hell. Or he’d left a suicide note explaining everything.

  I stood by the altar scanning the area carefully. His cassock lay folded across the altar. His vest, pants, shoes and socks were scattered underneath. A rosary lay piled on top of the robes. The ladder was a big one, two equal sides of steps. It lay twisted and useless where it had fallen.

  I got up close to the dangling body. The stink was overwhelming. Watching where I stepped I walked round the rigid corpse. His lower limbs were darkened by pooling blood. His upper body was blanched. Only his face and his trapped fingers showed colour. Soon they would turn black. His feet were level with my head. Big yellow toenails and hard heels, and something more interesting: darkening rings round his ankles, not complete, just on the outside, as though they’d been held together. I looked up at his hands; there seemed to be a similar pattern emerging round his wrists.

  I began to widen my search. I walked back to his little room at the back. In a cupboard hung his best raiments; the white surplice and heavy chasuble. In a drawer by the sink were a few bits of cutlery including a sharp knife. I examined the sink. The plughole had fibres clogging it, the sort of fibres you might get if you’d cut up a rope. I kept searching and soon found what I was looking for by the side of the old armchair: a short piece of the simple cord he used to cinch his surplice. It was cut roughly at one end. I didn’t touch it.

  When I got back to the hall Sam was sitting upright and breathing easier. Her face was starched and sweaty, but she gave me a weak smile, all the time averting her eyes from the dangling priest.

  ‘Sorry, Brodie. I just…’

  ‘I nearly passed out myself. Shall we summon the boys in blue?’

  Just then I heard voices coming down the passage from the back room. Then the wee woman who’d been so helpful outside burst through the curtain closely followed by two of her pals. They were all in black coats and clutching black handbags in front of them.

  ‘Stop!’ I shouted, but they had too much momentum. They piled up a few feet from us and demanded:

  ‘Whit’s going on here? Whit right have you to come into oor church?’

  And then her pals saw it. Saw him.

  ‘Oh dear God, Mary mother of Jesus…’

  ‘Oh my God, Lizzie!’

  Then their words just turned into shrieks and I shepherded them back to the corridor in a melee of accusations and calls to their Maker. I kept ushering them through the back room and outside. Then I stopped and tried to get their ashen attention.

  ‘Don’t go back in there. And don’t let anyone else get in. Can one of you go to the nearest phone box and call the police?’ The three wee dears were gibbering still. ‘Ladies! We need you to help. Can you go and get the polis, please.’

  They broke away from me as though I’d had time to nip in, capture their priest, strip him naked, throw a rope round the organ pipes and string him up myself. In a stumbling, clutching group they vanished round the corner sounding like a seal colony under attack from skuas.

  I went back in. Sam was in the anteroom now. She looked up; colour was returning to her face in livid splashes.

  ‘What now?’

  ‘We wait and we don’t touch anything.’

  She looked puzzled. ‘He hanged himself. Is there anything more to look for?’

  ‘In the nude? He was murdered, Sam. His ankles and wrists were tied before they strung him up. There might be marks round his mouth. I imagine they gagged him before taking the ropes and the gag away after he was dead.’

  The colour seemed to be leaving her face again, but she was made of tough stuff. She straightened. ‘Will the police see that?’

  ‘That’s why I’m staying here. It’s going to be a long day.’

  TWENTY-FOUR

  It was. A local constable came running in within ten minutes. I pointed him towards the hall. He came back slowly, his cap off and mopping his white forehead.

  ‘Take some air, officer.’ Outside I could hear the rumble of voices. Cassidy’s parishioners here to pay their respects. Or lynch me, depending on what the wee women had reported.

  ‘I don’t know who you are, sir, but you have to leave here immediately.’

  We shrugged and walked out into a barrage of questions and accusing looks. Sam and I stood to one side and shared a cigarette. Soon I could hear the bell of a squad car. It stopped at the front of the chapel and, shortly after, two familiar faces shot round the corner.

  Detective Sergeant Kerr skidded to a stop. ‘Well, well. If there’s trouble you’re never far away from it, Brodie. What happened to your face?’

  ‘I got hit. What’s your excuse, sergeant? I think you have bigger questions to deal with.’

  He flushed, looked me up and down, clearly wishing there wasn’t a bunch of witnesses around, and then followed the young uniformed constable into the building. DC White gave me a strange look, as though something puzzled him about me. Then he went in too. They came out within the time it took to finish my half-smoked fag.

  Kerr stood at the door. ‘Brodie, Miss Campbell, will you kindly step this way.’ He indicated the door. We walked back in and stood in the now crowded kitchen.

  Kerr started up. ‘Did you find the…’

  ‘Body? Yes. Nothing’s been touched. Unless any of you gentlemen have been fingering the evidence?’

  ‘What were you doing here?’ asked White.
r />   ‘Visiting Father Cassidy. He, as you know, is… was… Hugh Donovan’s priest. He’s been helping us.’

  ‘How did you get in? The front door is locked. Was the back open?’

  ‘Not exactly.’

  ‘You broke in!’ exclaimed DS Kerr, thinking of the charges mounting against me: breaking and entering, permitting a woman to see a priest in his birthday suit, cheeking a police officer, upsetting their boss, being a smug bastard.

  ‘The question is, DS Kerr, who murdered Father Cassidy?’

  ‘Don’t be stupid, Brodie! It’s as clear a case of suicide as I’ve seen!’

  I explained what I’d seen. The detectives looked at each other and vanished into the corridor. A while later they came back.

  ‘It doesn’t prove a thing. We’ll need a proper forensic report,’ Kerr blustered. I nodded. ‘And what’s more, Brodie, I think you’d better come down the station with us. If – and I do mean if – this is murder, you are my prime suspect,’ he said with what could only be classed as glee.

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous. We found the body and reported it.’

  ‘But you broke in! Up to no good, you were. Who’s to say what else you got up to.’

  ‘Does your finger of suspicion point at Miss Campbell, Advocate, too?’

  Kerr’s face screwed as his lighting brain engaged. ‘We’ll have to see, won’t we?’

  ‘Fine. We’ll follow you down in Miss Campbell’s car. Unless you have grounds for our arrest?’

  We left through the muttering crowd. White and Kerr posted the constable at the door with orders to keep everyone out.

  They separated us and took our statements. Then both of them grilled me for an hour until they were joined by Detective Chief Inspector Willie Silver, his red nose glowing in irritation.

  ‘This is pish, Brodie! Total pish!’ said Silver as I repeated Mrs Reid’s assertion that Father Cassidy had carried Hugh Donovan home the night before he was arrested.

  ‘No, I’ll tell you what’s pish, Chief Inspector! It’s you lot standing around, grilling me, while poor Mrs Reid and her kids are sitting in their house in Arran waiting for someone to pop in and cut their throats!’

  ‘You don’t know that! There’s no connection between these… events!’

  ‘No? Tell me, then, who was the mysterious caller who phoned the police and told them to raid Hugh’s house?’ I asked.

  White and Kerr exchanged guilty glances. Silver looked even more riled. ‘That’s none of your bloody business, Brodie!’

  ‘Well, it is my bloody business if someone tried to murder me! And succeeded in murdering the one man that could save Hugh Donovan from the gallows! Don’t you think so, Silver?’

  ‘We’ve only your word for the attempt on you, Brodie.’

  ‘I have the names and addresses of a dozen fishermen at Dunure who’ll gladly tell you what you want to know.’

  ‘And there’s no proof yet that we’re dealing with anything other than a tragic suicide.’

  ‘In that case, it’s time you let me go. Or do I need to call my lawyer? I think you’ll find she’s quite easy to get hold of.’

  Silver was gripping the table as though he wanted to throw it at me. He turned to his minions. ‘Out.’ They all left.

  DC White came back in about five minutes looking as if he’d pulled the short straw. ‘You can go, Brodie. But you’re not to leave Glasgow.’

  ‘I have no intention of leaving Glasgow until Hugh Donovan is proved innocent. What are you doing about Mrs Reid? Are you giving her protection?’

  White shifted from foot to foot and pulled at his collar. He waved his hand at me as though trying to swat me off. He turned and walked out of the room leaving the door open.

  Sam was waiting for me and passing the time haranguing the desk sergeant, any passing member of Silver’s team, and now Silver himself with threats of legal action unless she and I were released within very short order indeed. When he saw the bitter look on my face, Silver nodded to his sergeant and sidled off to his office to check the level in his the bottle.

  Twilight was falling on a perfect spring day as she drove us back. We were quiet with each other at first, hardly knowing where to start with our pent-up anger and frustration. I didn’t know whom I wanted to manhandle more: my former colleagues or the Slatterys. Finally I broke the silence.

  ‘I need to get back to Arran.’

  She nodded, then: ‘We used to take a house at Lochranza. Great views. Bloody midges.’

  ‘Midges indeed. I need to be on the first ferry in the morning. Could I take the car? It would save time. We may be too late as it is.’ I patted the wooden fascia in front of me.

  There was a long silence and a couple of sidelong glances between us.

  She said very quietly, ‘Do you really think they’ll try to kill her?’

  ‘After what they did to a priest?’

  ‘I’m coming with you. I might as well. I’ve nothing to build my appeal on if we lose our only witness.’

  We were quiet again. ‘Have we enough Scotch?’ I asked.

  ‘There’s an off-licence on my corner.’ The side of her mouth lifted in just the hint of a smile.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  First thing Monday I called the newsdesk at the Bugle and left a message for my boss telling him I was following up a murder inquiry. I didn’t say it was nearly my own. He sounded sceptical and long suffering. Who could blame him?

  The Glen Sannox was back in action. We drove the Riley on board the eight thirty to Brodick. Its twin funnels were soon belching streams of smoke as we hurried through the waves.

  ‘Shall we take a stroll on deck or would that worry you too much?’ she asked with a fine balance of seriousness and amusement.

  ‘I’m safe now. They already think I’m dead.’

  We took the air as though we were on a day trip for the fun of it. As we passed the mid point between the mainland and the island, I stared out into the choppy dark waters and thought how unlikely it was that I’d survived. After my unlikely escape from St Valery in ’40 I found I’d acquired a fatalistic shell. Even as I was stretchered off the battlefield in Sicily I wasn’t surprised that the shrapnel hadn’t taken my head off. It wasn’t that I felt I was being saved for some more dramatic end, or that someone was watching over me. I just stopped worrying about it. Some of the other blokes understood. I guess it was how the brain adjusted to daily exposure to the randomness of dying. It was only when I got back to Blighty that the dam seemed to burst and all my pent-up fears and terrors spewed out. Was that how it was for the others? Maybe I should get in touch with the regiment, compare notes?

  As for this latest attempt at shortening my life, I felt no after-shocks other than the physical. Had I donned my protective shell again? So easily? Had a sense of danger been cauterised from my mind? Though it was only two days ago, the whole thing seemed like a bad dream. And I knew all about bad dreams. I touched my cheek. No dream. It must have shown. Sam laid a slim hand on my arm and raised an eyebrow. I smiled to reassure her. A cold dip was nothing to worry about.

  ‘I could murder a cup of tea and a bacon roll.’

  ‘You certainly know how to spoil a girl, Brodie.’

  We trundled off the ferry and turned south out of the town. The journey up and over from Brodick Bay to Lamlash took us half the time of the bus. Sam nurtured the pre-select gearbox and pedals like a Le Mans driver as we took the gradient. As we crested the top, the sun came out and how I wished we were indeed on a holiday jaunt. But my heart didn’t stay light for long.

  We drove down and into the village, found the Ross Road and pulled up outside Mrs Reid’s house. The curtains were drawn and there was no smoke from the chimney. Not necessarily anything to worry about, but I made Sam stay in the car and walked up to the front door. I knocked and waited, knocked and waited. I could see nothing from the window; the curtains were tightly closed.

  ‘She’s no’ in,’ came a voice behind me.

  I turned r
ound. A small woman was standing by the gate. She was in her slippers and sporting a hairnet over pink rollers. A cigarette dangled from her mouth.

  ‘Is she shopping? Or at the school?’

  ‘Ah wouldnae think so.’ She shook her head. ‘You’re not the first wi’ your big cars.’

  Samantha had wound down her window. ‘What’s happening?’

  I walked up to the neighbour so that Sam could hear her response. ‘You say a big car came? When?’

  ‘Just yesterday.’

  ‘And took her away?’

  ‘Aye. Twa men, big men. Took her and the weans.’

  ‘Took them? You mean forced her?’ Sam asked.

  ‘Weel, Mrs Kennedy didnae look that comfortable, ken. But she was watching for her weans. Ah was inside, ye ken. So Ah didnae hear anythin’. Just keeked the look on her face. She wisnae happy, neither she was.’

  ‘Had you seen the men before?’ I asked.

  ‘Oh aye, they were the ones that brung them here, a’ they months back. Right big hard men, ye ken. Scars and everything. Nae offence,’ she said, eyeing my face.

  ‘You’d seen the car before?’

  ‘You don’t see mony big cars like thon. No’ here.’

  ‘So it wasn’t a local car?’

  ‘Nup.’

  We drove to the seafront and got out. We sat on the same bench I’d used two days ago. We gazed across at the mainland. I took out my pack and offered her one.

  ‘They didn’t lose much time,’ she said.

  ‘While we were being questioned by Silver’s idiots!’

  ‘Would they keep her on the island?’ Sam asked.

  ‘Depends.’

  ‘On what?’

  ‘Whether she’s alive or dead.’

  We finished our cigarettes and flicked the butts into the sea, watching the trail of sparks sail through the air and land with a swift hiss.

  ‘We could look for the car?’ she suggested.

  ‘We could. But let’s think about this. If it’s on the island, it’s likely to be in a garage or on a drive somewhere. We could search for days. If it came from the mainland, it went back there. We might get something from the manifest of yesterday’s ferry.’