by Ian Simpson
By the time they reached the upstairs room in the hall, Neil was friendly and relaxed. ‘Would you like to become one of us?’ he whispered.
‘Very much,’ Osborne replied. He looked at the others, trying to identify the undercover police officer, but no one stood out. Whoever it was, they knew what they were doing. He couldn’t see the suspect, the young man with the fighter’s knuckles. He guessed he was helping in the kitchen.
Two young men carried in a big pot of soup and set it down on a trestle table beside a dozen or so mugs which a woman proceeded to fill. She had curly red hair and had she made more of an effort Osborne might have fancied her. Mentally undressing her, she was not unlike Maria, but she had a pure, bovine, trusting expression that did nothing for him. The soup was good, though, full of vegetables and barley.
If he kept eating he didn’t have to talk, so he helped himself to several egg sandwiches. He thought he was doing well, considering that until his Googling that morning he had known very little about the Catholic Church.
He was still eating when Father Neil stood facing the group and clapped his hands together for attention.
‘We have been joined today by Noel,’ he began. ‘As well as sharing our Saviour’s birthday, he wishes to share His suffering. He wishes to become one of our number. Do we welcome him in the time-honoured way?’
Osborne swallowed the last of his sandwich and saw that everyone was smiling and chanting, ‘Yes, yes. Vita Dei. Vita Dei.’
‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘I’m honoured.’
Neil approached Osborne and took his hands. ‘Come before our congregation and kneel, facing me.’
They were an odd bunch, so this sort of nonsense was predictable. Osborne complied.
‘Now take off your jacket and shirt.’
This was more bizarre than he had expected, but he was too far committed to back out. Slowly, he removed his jacket and shirt, placing them carefully on the floor beside him. Feeling foolish now, he knelt before Neil, his back to the rest, naked from the waist up, wondering what on earth might happen next.
‘Let us pray,’ Neil said. ‘Almighty God, our Father and Redeemer, forgive our sins and may we humbly do thy will on earth as it pleases you. Our lives have been given to us by you, not to be shortened to avoid suffering. Lord, we remember the suffering of Our Lord Jesus on the cross. We remember these words of Padre Pio: “Anyone who wants to be a true Christian must mortify his flesh for no other reason than devotion to Jesus, who, for love of us, mortified His entire body on the cross.” Lord, thy servant, Noel, wishes to share the suffering of the saints in the presence of this, Your congregation. Grant him his wish, we pray, and give him thy peace.’
As the others chanted Vita Dei again, Neil took from one of the group a cat-o’-nine-tails and handed it to Osborne, who stared at it, horrified. Made of leather, its thongs were knotted at the ends. Osborne wanted nothing to do with it.
‘What, how …?’
Swiftly, Neil took it and, with a practised move, flicked it over one shoulder then the other so the thongs struck his own shoulder blades. Then he handed it back to Osborne. ‘Or do you want one of us to do it for you?’ he asked.
‘No,’ Osborne said, unable to keep the panic out of his voice.
Part of him wanted to pick up his clothes and flee, but he did not know if he would be stopped. Another part of him thought that, once initiated, he would be well placed to observe this bunch of maniacs at close quarters. Perhaps the youth with the knuckles really had been ordered to kill the defence lawyer in the suicide case and had murdered the wrong man. He decided to go through with the self-flagellation.
The first flick, over his left shoulder, felt like being stung simultaneously by a small swarm of bees. The second, to the right, was not so sore. He gritted his teeth and after about ten on each side, applied as gently as he thought he could get away with, he stopped. By now the repeated blows had made his back very sore.
‘Ah, Noel, you are entitled to suffer more than that. Do you want one of us to take over?’ Neil’s voice was as smooth as honey.
‘No,’ Osborne said, his voice catching. He closed his eyes and kept going, trying to think of anything except the agony stretching across his back from armpit to armpit. His knees also ached. After a time he could take no more, whatever the consequences. He collapsed on the floor in front of him, the cat underneath him.
Neil began another prayer. ‘Oh Lord, forgive thy servant Noel his sins. May he cease to tread the paths of duplicity and subterfuge and may he come to realise the error of his ways.’
Osborne turned and stood up. The members of the group were laughing at him.
Neil said, ‘I don’t know what paper you’re from, but you’re obviously a journalist and I doubt if you’ve ever sat through a mass in your life. I look forward to reading your report on today’s activities. Just remember, none of us has laid a finger on you. There is no law which says that very religious people are not allowed to have a sense of humour.’
With difficulty Osborne stopped himself from punching that mocking, shiny face. Tears of rage, pain and embarrassment stinging his eyes, he picked up his shirt and jacket and left the room. He turned and snarled, ‘You’ll regret this,’ then slammed the door. On the landing, he reached behind to feel the hot, painful weals then gingerly pulled on his shirt and jacket and made his way downstairs, already asking himself how he might get his revenge. Before going out on the street, he paused to wipe his face and collect himself. To his left was an open door. Inside the door was a pair of shoes, the toes pointing up. The wearer was the youth with the fighter’s knuckles. He lay on his back, the brown handle of a knife sticking out of his front. It had been inserted beneath his ribcage, pointing up and to his left so it found his heart. Wet blood stained his white shirt with rivulets running down both sides. Osborne did not need a doctor to tell him that the youth was dead.
Now terrified, he rushed out into the Gallowgate breathing deeply and closed the door of the centre behind him. He told himself to think rationally. The local police would have to be involved, but it was Baggo that Osborne phoned on his mobile.
* * *
Baggo returned to the room where di Falco and Bothwell were waiting, puzzled expressions on their faces. Standing over Bothwell, his voice shaking, he said, ‘This is now very serious. People are being killed. You must answer my questions or I will arrest you.’
Bothwell said nothing but his eyes were wide with fright.
Baggo said, ‘Is your reward-seeker male with a Glasgow accent?’
Bothwell nodded.
‘Do you know his name?’
He shook his head.
‘Do you know if he is connected to a religious sect?’
Bothwell started as if given an electric shock. ‘Well, on the phone he said something about the forces of Satan bearing false witness against him.’
Baggo and di Falco exchanged glances then nodded. Baggo said, ‘Well you can stop protecting your source as your friend Mr Osborne has just found him dead. I need you to tell me everything you know. Now.’
Shaking, Bothwell remained silent as he tried to cope with a situation that was as far from his comfort zone as he could imagine. ‘I got a call yesterday evening,’ he said quietly. ‘It was a mobile number which I can give you. The caller was a male, probably young, with a very strong Glasgow accent. He asked me lots of questions about the reward then said he wanted to speak to me face to face. I agreed to meet him and he said he’d be on Glasgow Green near the People’s Palace at five-thirty today. I had to be alone and if the police or Osborne were there it would be all off. It was then that he talked about the forces of Satan bearing false witness. That’s it, honestly.’
‘And he gave no name?’
‘No.’
‘Why did you put that bit in today’s paper? Didn’t you realise it could put whoever it was in danger?’
‘The boss insisted.’ He nodded towards the door. ‘Since we’ve been featuring the Knox m
urder our circulation has gone up dramatically. We had to keep the pot boiling, he said.’
Baggo nodded grimly. He had been surprised how aware everyone was of what Good News had to say about the investigation. ‘You may have kept the pot boiling, but you signed one man’s death warrant. You will hear more from us. Charges will be brought. And if anyone else tries to claim the reward, you must tell us immediately, and I mean immediately. Most importantly, you must print nothing more about this inquiry without police permission. Oh, and just make sure you remain available,’ he commanded. Turning to di Falco, he said, ‘We have to go to Glasgow.’
* * *
A small crowd had gathered round the entrance to the church hall in the Gallowgate. Baggo and Di Falco ducked under the blue and white crime scene tape and looked for the senior officer. A young female officer in uniform pointed them towards a big man in plain clothes standing in bright sunlight beside the outer door. He was running a hand through his hair in an harassed manner.
‘Are you forensics or photographers?’ the man barked at them, screwing up his eyes.
‘We are police officers like yourself,’ Baggo said, smiling broadly and producing his warrant. ‘Detective Sergeant Chandavarkar and Detective Constable di Falco. We are investigating two murders which may be connected to this one. And you are?’
‘How did you hear about this?’ he demanded, ignoring the question.
‘The fellow who found the body phoned me.’
‘Why the fuck did he phone you?’ There was sweat running down the man’s highly-coloured face. He did not look like someone who enjoyed hot weather.
‘It’s a long story, which I can tell you. But we would like to see the body.’
The man’s eyebrows shot up and he gasped. Then his eyes narrowed and he put his face up to Baggo’s. His breath reeked of bad teeth. ‘I don’t know if you are taking the fucking piss but you’d better stop now. This is a Glasgow crime scene and I’m not going to let people I don’t know trample all over it just because they’ve had a phone call. If we let anyone who’d had a fucking phone call turn up and look at crime scenes we’d be in the National Trust for Scotland, and we don’t do fucking cream teas either. So go away.’
‘We could probably help you, but have it your own way. For the record, you are?’
The big man glared at him. ‘Detective Sergeant Kelly. Now fuck off.’
‘The inspector will be here in half an hour,’ Baggo said to di Falco as they returned to the car which fortunately was in a shady spot. ‘We might as well wait for her.’
* * *
Her Sat-Nav working well, Flick arrived at the Gallowgate, her pregnancy sapping her energy in the heat but her mind buzzing with questions. She was greeted by Baggo and di Falco and thought she detected an unusual sheepishness about Baggo. Having been told of Kelly’s attitude, she marched up to him. Harassed and over-heated, he was barely courteous even after realising she out-ranked him. It was only after calling the DCC on her mobile and handing the phone to him that he became chastened and she got the cooperation she wanted.
Inside the church hall, SOCOs and a photographer were busy. A pathologist had come and gone, provisionally confirming the knife wound as the cause of death and the time at about one pm. The dead man had been Johnny Dolan and none of the Glasgow officers would be mourning his passing. The Vita Dei group had told the police that Dolan had been with them when they came together to the hall at one, but no one could actually remember him upstairs. One young man thought he heard a voice calling ‘Johnny’ as they came in off the street, but he could not remember if it was male or female and had thought nothing of it. Neither of the youths who carried the soup pot upstairs nor the red-haired woman had noticed the open door where the body lay. Their route from the kitchen to the stairs did not take them past it. The body had been discovered by an English tourist who was now in custody.
‘In custody?’ Flick and Baggo asked in unison.
‘A constable was trying to get him to stay with the people who’d been upstairs,’ Kelly explained. ‘He wouldn’t go where he was told and when the constable put a hand on his shoulder he lashed out. So he was arrested.’
‘Where is he?’ Flick asked, trying not to smile.
‘What is it to you?’ Kelly asked sharply and immediately regretted it as Flick’s face clouded. ‘I mean, he’s at our London Road office, ma’am. I think there may be mental health issues. He swears he’s a retired cop who cleaned up the East End of London.’
Flick turned away to conceal her amusement. Inspector No could stew in his own juice as far as she was concerned. While di Falco looked gleeful, Baggo stroked his chin thoughtfully.
‘Exactly how might this murder tie in with your investigation, ma’am?’ Kelly asked.
Flick told him about the fraud trial, Knox’s murder and Tam Walker’s murder. Dolan had been working as a waiter when Knox died and had been a member of a group that had sent unpleasant letters to a QC who could have been mistaken for Knox.
‘And that newspaper …’ di Falco began.
‘Hasn’t made our lives any easier,’ Baggo interrupted, shooting him a warning glance.
‘What newspaper?’ Kelly snapped.
‘Good News,’ Flick said. ‘They were offering a reward for information on the Knox murder. It may have been Dolan who was about to claim it.’
‘It almost certainly was,’ Baggo said, seeing no point in keeping anything back. ‘We squeezed that out of Bothwell before we came here.’
‘But how did the killer know that?’ Kelly asked.
‘Because the stupid newspaper editor insisted on alerting their readers in advance,’ Baggo said. ‘Now we’ll never know what Dolan would have said.’
In the cool atmosphere of the church hall, Kelly was becoming less hostile by the minute. ‘So how can we best cooperate, ma’am? I don’t think we should concentrate only on your angle. There are a hell of a lot of people in Glasgow who would have stuck a knife in Johnny Dolan. I can reel off half a dozen names right now.’
Flick smiled. ‘Perhaps you might follow your lines and we follow ours, sharing information as we go? I’d like copies of the pathology and lab reports and if there are any fingerprints you can’t trace, maybe we can.’
‘Certainly, ma’am. We’re not short of cases here, you know. And I’m sorry about being awkward earlier.’ A few words with the DCC and getting out of the sun’s warmth had brought about a personality change in Kelly.
Flick and Baggo made their way towards their cars, di Falco following soon afterwards. Flick took Baggo’s arm. ‘My car. Now,’ she said. He threw his keys to di Falco and, full of foreboding, sat in her passenger seat.
‘It was you, wasn’t it?’ she said, her voice shaking with fury.
‘It was me?’ he said plaintively.
‘You know damn fine,’ she shouted. A well-upholstered Glasgow woman, laden with plastic shopping bags on both sides, turned to stare. ‘Bloody No. How did he come to be here? How did he know your mobile number? How much have you told him?’
‘Flick, listen …’
‘Don’t Flick me.’
‘All right, ma’am. I made a mistake. I was in a pub talking to the crown junior in the fraud trial. She has been most helpful to us and will continue to be. I told her about Vita Dei but I didn’t realise that bloody No had sneaked into the pub and was sitting behind me listening in. When I saw him I told him what he had said about you was a disgrace and that’s why he was nice about you in today’s paper. I also said we had an officer undercover in Vita Dei and I did not want his cover blown. I had not heard that Billy was no longer under cover. No has obviously decided to have a go at Vita Dei himself and it has all gone pear-shaped for him. As usual.’
Flick sat in the driver’s seat, her hands rubbing the sides of her belly in circular movements. It felt as if the baby was learning the Highland Fling. ‘Is that all he overheard?’ she asked.
He was tempted to say yes, but honesty was the best policy wi
th Flick. ‘I did say a little about Lord Hutton.’
She buried her head in her hands. ‘No!’ she shouted.
‘It was his idea that I should visit him last night,’ he went on, ‘and I think I learned something.’
Her eyes filled with tears of rage. ‘How could you? I don’t believe it.’
‘How can I make it better?’
‘You can’t. I feel betrayed, I really do. Tell di Falco to get into my car and you can, you can … fuck off wherever you want to go but don’t get in the way of my inquiry.’
He got out. ‘Sorry,’ he said but she stared straight ahead.
‘Watch your step today,’ Baggo said to di Falco as he told him to join Flick. ‘And it’s not all down to hormones,’ he added ruefully.
* * *
The temptation to leave No in custody was strong but Baggo recognised that he might yet prove useful. And to make him useful, first he would have to be made grateful. That was not proving easy.
If the cells area of London Road Police Office had air conditioning it was not obvious. The smell of sweaty, stressed male bodies made the air heavy. Baggo remembered hot, sticky air from Mumbai, but it had not been as rancid as the stuff now invading his lungs. The sweaty, stressed male to whom he was speaking was suffering more than most as he had to work. Sergeant Smith, the custody sergeant was reluctant to let Baggo see Osborne. As far as he was concerned, the prisoner was going nowhere.
Both his voice and his colour rose as he spoke. ‘Carstairs is where we keep the criminally insane in Scotland, and I’d say he was a candidate. He’s been raving about conspiracies against him involving the Catholic Church and Wimbledon, all thought up by someone he calls “fucking Fortune”. And he clocked one of our boys too.’
‘I know it all sounds odd, but I’ve told you about him and about how he could help us if you release him. If you let me speak to him I’ll find out more and I’ll tell you. And I’ll make sure he gets his newspaper to be nice to the Glasgow police.’