by Robert White
“What does your husband do now then?” I asked.
“Oh God knows, turned out to be a right loser he did. Liked his beer too much. Ain’t seen him in years.”
She gestured towards my own wedding ring.
“How long you been wed then?”
Every now and again, normally in the presence of a female, I let my mouth run away with itself. “I’m widowed,” I blurted.
There was a look of genuine sadness on the woman’s face, quickly replaced by one of pity, the reason I rarely say those words and why I kicked myself for doing so again.
“It was some time ago,” I lied, hoping that she would consider time had eased my burden and I would be asked about it no more.
She gave me another ‘what a shame’, look. Her eyes were a lovely shade and her hair had a trace of copper.
I gave her my best smile and told the truth. “I’ve been a single man for a good while now.”
She let her head fall and raised her brows, pretty as a picture. “Really?”
I nodded.
“Well, that’s nice to know…erm?”
“Des,” I said.
“Maggie,” she offered. And then, “Oh my, I must get on, I’ve the sandwiches to make yet.”
With that, she disappeared into a small kitchen at the back of the bar.
I wasn’t the only sinner. There were half a dozen other mid-day imbibers dotted about the lounge. I nodded towards one old boy who must have been eighty if he was a day. He sat bolt upright nursing half a dark mild. He appeared to be spending equal amounts of time between two tasks. The first, probing his Racing Post, running a knurled finger down the lists of runners and riders.
And the second, examining me.
“Where y’say you’re from lad?” he shouted. “I’m a bit on the deaf side, and I didn’t quite catch what ye told Maggie.”
I moved two stools closer to his table.
“Scotland…Glasgow.”
The old boy pulled his face. “Ah yer a Jock then eh? Never took to ‘em myself.”
I had to stop myself from laughing.
“Oh right, known a few of us Scots then have ye?”
“Aye lad, fought alongside em in t’ war.”
I did my maths.
“The second?”
“Aye.”
“And you didn’t make any pals with them lads I take it?”
“One or two were all right, I suppose.”
“Aye, some of us are.”
The old boy pushed his empty glass across the table.
“Ye tend to like folk a bit better once they get the ale in.”
Maggie was out of the kitchen in a shot. She stood alongside me, hands on hips looking straight at the old boy.
“Now George, what have I told you about cadging drinks off the customers? We ain’t got enough as it is without you frightening ‘em off.”
I smiled at her. “I don’t frighten too easy, Maggie, get the old boy a pint on me.”
“I only drink halves,” shouted George before muttering something about foreigners and turning the page on his paper.
I shook my head at the cantankerous old git. “Half then please, Maggie.”
She blew out her cheeks and poured the drink. I picked it from the bar, slipped off my stool and sat opposite the old timer.
“There ye are.”
The old boy took a drink, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and then offered it.
“George White.”
I shook.
“Des Cogan.”
“Pleased to make your acquaintance, Cogan.”
George looked at his palm and then at me. I forget sometimes just how calloused my hands are.
“You don’t get hands like those working in an office, lad.”
“I’m the outdoor type,” I offered.
He looked at me with watery eyes that still had plenty of life in them.
“Military?” he asked, suddenly able to lower his voice when required.
I nodded. “Retired.”
“Ah,” managed George wheezily. “You’d be a career soldier though. I was a conscript see. 1942, eighteen I was. I worked here,” George tapped the table with a finger. “Ancoats, in the mill. I remember coming home from work and me mother crying into her apron…letter opened on the mantle.”
I took a drink of my pint. “Ye see much, George?”
The old boy drifted for a moment. “Too much son, I saw way too much.”
“But ye here to tell the tale, eh?” I offered.
“I am lad, yes. That is true, but let me tell you this. There was eleven of us from the same mill. Eleven lads all similar age, all still teenagers as a fact, and was only me an’ Billy Higgins came back. Now…” George reached over the table and shakily grabbed my wrist. “Tell me this young man…was it worth it? Eh? For what we have now? These bastards goin’ around threatening old folk in their own homes? Is that what they died for?”
I noticed he’d already drunk up. “Refill?”
“Bah!” spat the old boy. He pushed his glass across the table. “Go on then, I’ll have another.” Then George raised his voice towards the kitchen. “First bit of interesting conversation I’ve had in here in years!”
Maggie brought the drinks over and gave me a wink as she did so. The pub wasn’t exactly filling for the lunchtime rush. It was more a case of two in…two out. The odd sandwich and a pint or two.
“So, laddie,” began George. “What got you in the Forces?
“Me, well I suppose it was a way of getting out of the Gorbals.
See, I was the youngest of seven, all boys, George. All my big brothers were scratching about trying to get work down the docks and the like, then one night my brother Tom, he brought a pal home for supper. A boy by the name of James MacAfee. He’d joined the Guards. There he was in his uniform. He looked all sorted you know? Good career in front of him. I thought to mysel’ aye… I could do that when I leave school.”
“And you did?”
“Aye, 2 Para. I did just shy of my twenty-two.”
“And what of James MacAfee?”
“Killed at Tumbledown, the Falklands, 1982.”
George snorted again. “And was that worth it?”
I had no answer to that one.
George took some more of his mild. “So, you’ve been to the Crematorium again by the look of you. Another fallen comrade?”
I nodded. “Aye, in a way, but I’m here in Ancoats to look for a flat to rent.”
“Bah!” George was on it again. “Well, you’ll find plenty of them! Can’t move for ‘em. But there’s never enough, so it seems.”
“Aye, but now I’m here, I can’t get to it. The coppers are all over it like a rash.”
George set down his glass. “You mean the place two streets back?”
“Aye.”
“Murder,” said George, turning down his mouth. “There was a murder. Young kid, student. They say it was bad.”
“They?”
“Y’know, folk…the gossips.”
“And what do they say about it?”
George leaned over the table, his bottom jaw trembling with age. “They say… the boy was crucified.”
Lauren North’s Story:
I’d worked for three hours on J.E. Blackman’s antecedence.
Rick and Mitch got back from Simon’s just as I’d finished scanning the reports Willis had given me.
Rick sat instantly perusing them.
“Anything of use in these?” he asked.
“I’ve not had time to examine them. I’ve printed copies for the dossier, but that is about all.”
Rick picked up the file and leafed through the pictures of the Blackman family.
He suddenly realised Mitch was still st
anding close by.
“If you are going to wait to be asked to sit every time, you’re going to have very tired legs, son.”
Mitch pulled up a chair and sat. He gave me a look. I shrugged.
Better get used to it, mate.
Rick dropped the file on the table.
“Why don’t you talk me through it?” he asked.
I edged my seat in closer. “Okay… In a nutshell, Blackman is about as politically far right as Genghis Khan. He’s anti everything…except war, he likes war…a lot. He has lots of medals to prove it.”
“Rank?” asked Rick.
“Major General, US Marine Corps,” said Mitch flatly.
I gave the American a look that told him maybe he could have saved me some time, but ploughed on.
“He’s anti-abortion, anti-gay rights, particularly same sex marriage, he’s anti-immigration. He campaigned to stop the construction of a large mosque in Louisville. He’s pro the death penalty, and pro-gun ownership, surprise-surprise. He wants to cut funding to many African-American and Hispanic schemes that provide social housing in the State and use the money for construction, transport and other major infrastructure projects. This is very popular with the working-class whites. It’s also very popular with VineCo…VineCo is one of Blackman’s many companies that specialise in multimillion dollar construction and re-generation developments worldwide. Another jaw dropping shock is that VineCo and Blackman’s other major companies have been the beneficiaries of many of his political schemes and policy changes. All in all, he just falls short of wearing a white pointed hat to his rallies.”
Mitch pulled a face.
“Unfair Mitch?” I asked.
The American rubbed the top of his head with his palm. “A little, maybe. I mean, Senator Blackman does tremendous work for charity. He’s a Christian, a God-fearing man…”
I pointed. “Ah! I was coming to that part... Kentucky is part of the infamous Bible Belt, yes? One of half a dozen or so Southern States that have large, vocal Christian communities. They’re predominantly white and protestant in nature, lots of Evangelicals, Baptists, Methodists and the like banging on about hell fire and damnation every five minutes…. It’s also a multi-billion-dollar industry, of which J.E. Blackman has a very nice slice.”
I pulled a sheet from the printer to refresh my memory.
“Senator Blackman owns Verity Holdings, an umbrella company. Now Verity have eleven separate other smaller companies under their steerage. All tend to be foreign in nature. Mines in South Africa, shipbuilders in the Far East, tech companies in India…. but one is Golden Gate. Now, Golden Gate are a fund-raising organisation and registered international charity directly associated with Reverend Billy Chapel.”
“I’ve heard of him,” said Rick. “He’s been over here in the UK, hasn’t he? Massive open-air rallies? Healing the sick? Feeding the poor?”
“Lining his pockets too,” I said.
“Golden Gate, posted pre-tax profits of a hundred and eighty million dollars last year.”
Rick raised his brows. “And the percentage going to charity?”
I shrugged. “I can’t find that figure anywhere…maybe Egghead can help with that one.”
Mitch leaned forward in his seat.
“Sorry, Ma’am, but I don’t see how this has got any bearing on the investigation you have been tasked with. You aren’t here to assassinate J.E. Blackman’s character. You’re here to find out who murdered his son.”
We both turned to Mitch.
“Did we touch a nerve there?” asked Rick.
The American appeared agitated.
“Look, people like J.E. Blackman and the Reverend Chapel, give hope to millions of poor white working-class Americans. Guys, like me, who grew up in a trailer and watched the immigrant communities prosper; watched them thrive whilst we stood still or went backwards. We saw immigrants get better housing, better jobs. We got left behind.”
I was taken aback by Mitch’s outburst.
“So, Blackman’s the Messiah? From what I’ve seen, Mitch, he’s a racist, sexist, homophobe, who likes money and power in equal amounts. I don’t see him paying for better houses or heath care.”
Mitch stood and for the first time that soft Southern drawl grew an edge.
“J.E. is for the working man. He puts born and bred Americans first. We don’t want mosques in our cities. I’ve seen enough mosques to last me a lifetime in Iraq. He wants stuff built in America, by Americans, not imported from China or Mexico. And as for his beliefs? The Bible says that homosexuality is a sin, does it not? It says that abortion is a sin, does it not?
I read the bible. I believe in the Lord God and I believe that J.E. Blackman is a good man.”
I locked eyes with Mitch Collins.
“Well, we’ll just have to agree to differ there, won’t we?”
Mitch regained some of his composure. “That we will, Ma’am,” he said. “That we will.”
Des Cogan’s Story:
“Crucified?”
Old George didn’t seem the type to exaggerate.
“That’s what folks are sayin’. The kid was nailed to a cross and slit open just the way Jesus Christ was.”
I finished my pint, ordered another and a half for the old boy.
“Blimey,” I muttered to myself. “No wonder they’re keeping a lid on it.”
“What you say there, Cogan?”
“No, nothing George. Just a bad way to go, for the young lad, eh?”
The old soldier darkened. “Aye, I were stupid enough to stay on after the war. Posted to Palestine in ’47, I was. I seen our lads hung from trees and lamp posts by the Irgun. They strung ‘em up they did, like meat in a butcher’s window. And I’ll tell yer this, one or two were crucified…bloomin’ heathens…anyways… you won’t be seeing the inside of that flat anytime soon I’d reckon.”
“You’re right there, George.”
We lapsed into a comfortable silence. George went back to his Racing Post and I admired Maggie as she served her regulars through what she laughingly called the lunchtime rush. The Guinness started to do its job, too and I steadily topped myself up from yesterday’s wake.
That said, I couldn’t get the image of a young boy hanging from a cross from my mind’s eye. This job got stranger hour on hour.
Just before three o’ clock, two faces sauntered in.
From their body language, it was obviously not their first visit.
Maggie visibly stiffened.
Both men were tall, tanned and well dressed. One carried a briefcase, the other a laptop. I would have put them down as travelling salesmen from the brewery or food industry had it not been for the obvious hostility in their stance.
Briefcase spoke first. He was a Southerner, Kent maybe.
“Afternoon Maggie,” he began. “We’ve come to see if you’ve reconsidered our more than generous offer for your business.”
Maggie was obviously an experienced landlady and looked capable of handling most situations despite her small stature.
“Well, as I’ve told you gentleman before,” she said calmly. “The Prince ain’t for sale. I don’t want to sell. This is my business and it will stay that way.”
Briefcase guy smiled revealing good teeth, but I could see he was irritated. He was obviously a man used to getting his own way.
“This place is finished, Maggie. Don’t you see that? People don’t want to sit in dark old bars anymore eating ham sandwiches. They want coffee shops and cocktail bars. Why slave over this place? It’s dead... finished.”
The guy’s last couple of words were almost spat out and full of underlying aggression, but Maggie didn’t scare easy that was for sure.
“I said no, didn’t I? I said no last time and the answer will be the same next time. So why don’t you go and scare some more old folk fro
m their homes, eh? Your lot are good at that.”
Old George was in like a flash. “Aye, buggers tried it with me the other night. Come banging on me door… after ten it was. I’m a pensioner y’know.”
It was laptop’s turn to speak. He turned to the old soldier, fixed smile, shark-like eyes.
“I’m sure our purchasing officers were more than polite, Sir, and they made you a good offer. My advice is you should reconsider it. This area is being developed for the young. The upwardly mobile. I hear there are some very nice residential homes just a few miles from here.”
His tone turned all nasty. “Maybe you should look into that possibility, Grandad.”
I felt my hackles rise. “Dinnea be speaking to George like that,” I said.
Laptop’s smile faltered ever so slightly. “I didn’t think I was addressing you, Sir.”
I shrugged and eyeballed him.
“You need to treat the elderly with respect, son. Didn’t your parents teach you that?”
It wasn’t like me to go looking for it. All my years in the Regiment had been about being the grey man. Don’t bring attention to yourself. Enter and leave without a soul noticing that you were ever there in the first place.
I’d practiced that mantra all my service and it had stood me well. However, on this occasion, I felt my ever so shiny halo slipping. I thought my head would burst. Everything had just seemed to come on top. Losing Anne to the cancer, losing JJ in Albania, young Kaya’s tears, this job, and now these self-righteous fuckers.
I was just about ready to really upset the bloke, when out of the corner of my eye, I saw Maggie. Eyes wide, shaking her head.
You don’t need to do this.
Briefcase joined his pal. They stood shoulder to shoulder, matching smiles painted on their smug coupons. “I think you are out of your depth, Sir,” he said quietly. “I can hear from your accent, you aren’t English.”
“And ye point is?”
Laptop butted in. “Maybe you should go back North. To be with your own kind.”
I stood up, dropped my pint on the table in front of George and took a step back. If it was going to kick off, I wanted to be on my feet and with some room to move. Both men were taller and heavier than me and looked handy enough.