‘Did you smell this, Brodie? Or did you happen to know something about this?’
‘Good morning to you, Detective Chief Inspector Sangster. It’s good to see you. I might be able to answer one of your questions if I knew what this is.’
Sangster sighed, ‘Let him in,’ to the constable.
I followed him inside. The Luftwaffe couldn’t have done a better job. Or a bull. There was hardly a display unit left standing. My feet crunched on broken glass and pottery. The carefully stacked piles of junk were tumbled together like flotsam after a deluge.
‘Stock-taking?’ I asked.
Sangster sighed again. ‘Spare me your wit, Brodie. Through the back.’
A uniformed officer stood by the door behind the counter. I hesitated. I didn’t need this. I’d had enough. I started towards him, knowing what I’d find. The officer moved aside. Lying sprawled on the floor was McGill. He was as smashed up as his store. His head was partly severed. The great gaping wound in his throat still wept blood. Behind, on the wall, a safe door stood open. The safe was empty. An officer was dabbing at it for fingerprints.
‘So, Brodie, what extraordinary coincidence brings you and this pair wee man thegither?’
There was a crunch behind us. ‘Ah think Ah can answer that, sir.’ Inspector Duncan Todd joined us.
Sangster narrowed his eyes. ‘Now Ah’m really worried. What the hell brings you here, Todd?’
‘Ah jist heard about this at Albany Street, sir. Brodie and I had been talking about McGill the other day.’
‘Oh aye, and why would that be? What are you twa up to?’
I stepped forward. ‘I was following a lead, Sangster. Some of your Jewish parishioners were being burgled and you weren’t taking their calls. They asked me to take a look. Inspector Todd suggested I had a word with McGill here. I came here on Monday. I found McGill had acquired a number of the missing items and that he’d bought them from a certain Paddy Craven.’
Sangster’s face whitened. ‘Craven! Who got knifed the other day?’
‘Tuesday, sir. In a burglary that went wrong,’ said Duncan.
Sangster looked from one of us to the other, wondering where to start.
‘Jesus, Brodie, can you no’ lea’ the polis stuff to us?’
‘I’m a reporter. It’s what I do.’
‘So what’s your reporter’s theory about this then?’ He indicated the bleeding body of poor McGill.
‘McGill has a place upstairs. Somebody got in, forced him down here to open the safe, and cut his throat to shut him up?’
‘Who?’
‘Well, we know it wasn’t Paddy Craven getting his own back for McGill clyping on him,’ I said.
Duncan said, ‘Maybe Craven was working with someone else? And they took the hump?’
‘Or McGill knew something or someone else involved in the thieving?’ I suggested.
‘You huvnae written about McGill for the paper?’
‘I was about to. It’s now a job for the obituary boys.’
We tried a few other formulae, but without any evidence we might as well have blamed Jack the Ripper.
A little later, Duncan and I stepped outside, leaving Sangster to it. We began walking towards the city centre.
‘Anything you’re not telling me, Brodie?’
‘Only that we’ve grabbed a bit of string and found a tiger on the end of it.’
TEN
It was a long day. I waited by the phone until past midnight. My worries piled up. A train derailment? A plane crash? The morning Royal Scot should have got in by four thirty. Sam was to be whisked up to Hendon and flown to Hamburg on the evening military flight, which got in around nine o’clock our time.
By midnight my anxiety had turned to anger. I was furious at the world. Another rotten trick. Finding her, making me fall for her and then wresting her from me. Laughing at our mortal antics. Slapstick clowns on life’s stage. I paced up and down like a madman, throwing back the Johnnie Walker and smoking till my throat was raw. I forced myself to pick up a book. I had no idea what I was reading.
The phone jolted me from my doze at one thirty. I leaped out of the armchair, knocking my book to the floor. I stumbled downstairs and grabbed the phone.
‘Sam?’
‘Thank you, caller. Please go ahead.’ The cold, international operator’s voice was replaced by hers. Distant and tinny.
‘Douglas? Can you hear me? It’s me. Sorry. Sorry. Just got here. Gales over the North Sea. I feel like I’ve been on one of those big dippers at the shows.’
For a moment I couldn’t speak. ‘I was that worried. Are you OK?’
‘Wabbit. But I’m in my hotel. Iain met me and we’re getting down to it tomorrow. The real thing starts next week.’
We talked some more, but I heard the weariness in her voice and let her go. I didn’t mention McGill’s death. Two murders in a week didn’t make for a social call.
Three weeks two days.
I drifted through the weekend, trying not to hit the bottle too early. I even went to the pictures on Saturday for diversion. The Big Sleep with Bacall and Bogie. It left me wishing I had some of Marlowe’s luck with women, not to mention solving murders.
Sitting in the dark by myself, I was a wee boy again, in the Plaza or Regal, mouth gawping, staring up at the huge flashing screen on a Saturday morning. The minors’ matinee. For years I thought it was only for kids of miners like my dad. Each school week dragged by until at last I was running, with threepence hot in my hand, down the Bonnyton Road to the High Street. Jostling with my pals in the queue. Buying an ice lolly for a penny.
On into my teens, watching grown-up pictures. Transfixed by other lives, other trajectories; the impossible glamour and sophisticated drawl of Clark Gable, Garbo, Joan Crawford. The canyons of New York, an open-top Chevy Speedster under blue California skies. How did I end up pounding the beat in Glasgow when the Wild West beckoned? My life choices always seemed to be a response rather than a calculated decision.
Sam phoned me on Sunday evening sounding in better spirits but complaining about the cold. Her hotel was by a frozen lake near the centre of Hamburg.
‘I should have brought my mother’s old fur, Douglas. I’d wear it to bed.’
‘Now there’s an image to leave me with . . .’
On the Monday after the slaughter of Craven and McGill, another random piece of jigsaw landed on the board with a thump. The piece, in the shape of a distraught young woman, turned up at the newsroom. I could see her talking to one of the secretaries: Morag Duffy. Morag pranced over to my desk. She made sure that her left hand hung over my filing cabinet – casually. On her ring finger a tiny gem emitted a faint light on a gold band. For a while back in the spring, when Sam and I weren’t talking and I was slumming it in a bedsit, I’d been winching Morag. She was young and bonny and fun, but I couldn’t shake my interest in someone more challenging. Love makes us idiots.
Morag had sought refuge from my callous spurning of her affections by taking up with a policeman: the brave sergeant who’d comforted her in the newsroom after the assault by the Glasgow Marshals. She was to become Mrs Murdoch on St Valentine’s Day. I wondered if the blushing bridegroom had had any say in the matter. Morag had her entire life planned out, right down to the pattern of her net curtains.
‘There’s a woman asking for you. She’s in tears.’ She meant: You’ve done it again, Brodie, you’ve broken another poor lassie’s heart. But look at me: I couldnae care less. The daft thing is that her blatant display got to me. I felt a pang of jealousy. I’d traded in – so to speak – Morag’s curvy enthusiasm for an uncertain relationship and a pair of adamantine eyes.
‘Who is she, Morag?’
‘She wouldnae gie her name. Said it was personal.’ It was amazing how much innuendo Morag could put into one word.
‘Is the wee conference room free? Can you show her in there, please.’
I gave it a minute, got the nod from Morag across the room, and headed
for the room. I found a woman sitting at the table clasping and unclasping her hands, as though washing them. She twisted at a wedding ring. She was small and plain, her brown hair mostly hidden under a green Paisley scarf. Late twenties perhaps. Her face was stricken, her dark eyes rubbed red.
‘Hello, there. I’m Douglas Brodie. You wanted to see me?’
She nodded stiffly. ‘Thanks. Ah’m . . . ma name is Ellen Jacobs.’
I sat down opposite her. ‘How can I help, Mrs Jacobs?’
She looked at her hand. ‘It’s Miss, actually. Ah’m no’ married. It jist keeps the . . . Look, it’s about this man that was killed.’
‘Which? I’m afraid we’ve had a spate.’
‘Paddy Craven.’
‘You have my fullest attention.’
‘And also this pawnbroker.’
‘McGill?’
‘Aye, him. Look, the thing is, Mr Brodie . . .’ She took a deep breath. ‘Ah’m a jeweller. Ah work from home. Ah do work for the other jewellers with shops. Paddy Craven came to oor house with some stuff a wee while ago. It wisnae the first time.’
‘Stuff?’
She looked on the point of tears again. ‘Ah didnae ask Paddy too many questions. Ah need the work. He’d bring in some old jewellery. Used stuff. Ah would put them in new settings or at least clean them up, mend them if needed.’
‘I see. Shouldn’t you be saying this to the police? I know a copper who’d be glad to hear it all. A decent man.’
That set her off properly. It took a while with hankie and sniffs to get back to the story.
‘Maybe, but first Ah hud to see you. Ah’ve read about you. Ah always read your wee column.’
‘Thank you. Now what is it you’re telling me?’
‘In case it isnae obvious, Ah’m Jewish.’
It was, but from where? Her accent was local but there was something else in it. Was she here because of guilt? She’d read about the thefts and had realised she was party to these crimes against her own people?
She reached into her bag and came out with a piece of cloth. She set it down on the table and opened it carefully, uncovering two lozenges of glittering yellow metal. Each was about an inch and a half long and an inch wide, with the thickness of a florin. The edges were rounded and they were without markings. She picked one up and placed it in my hand. It was heavier than it looked. I rubbed my thumb over it, enjoying the smooth weight. I wanted it.
‘Gold?’
She nodded.
‘Paddy?’
She nodded again.
‘Why are there no assay marks?’
She picked up the second small ingot and rolled it between her fingers. Gingerly.
‘Ah suppose it was stolen, Mr Brodie. The thing is, when Ah was using it, you know, melting it to make rings or to hold jewels, Ah tested it. There’s still some traces of amalgam.’
‘From old jewellery?’
‘Gold fillings.’
She must have seen my cogs weren’t meshing. She waved it at me.
‘Teeth, Mr Brodie. From the camps.’
I dropped mine.
ELEVEN
She burst into tears properly this time. I was my usual hapless self in front of tearful women. I proffered my hankie and called out to one of the secretaries to bring us some tea. By the time it arrived Ellen Jacobs had pulled herself together somewhat. Though the secretary gave me a funny look. Morag would have primed her.
I tried. ‘They could come from anywhere.’
She shook her head. ‘That’s what Paddy said. Ah didn’t know what to do. How to stop.’
‘He could have stolen them from a dentist or . . . a mortician?’
She raised her eyebrows at me, as though I was being stupid or slow instead of self-deluding.
‘No’ like this. You need a furnace. And they’re unmarked. Ah know where they come from. You wrote about the thefts among ma . . . among the Jews. And the papers are full o’ the other stories. Out there in Germany. At the trials. It’s all coming out. And here Ah am, wi’ this!’
‘How many did he steal?’
She played with one. ‘About eight.’
‘And he stole them from a Jew, here in Glasgow? That doesn’t make sense, unless the Jew was in a concentration camp and managed to steal the ingots in the first place.’
‘That’s what Ah think.’
‘Do you know who Paddy stole them from? Do you know the address?’
‘He never told me anything.’
‘Wait here a minute, please.’
I left her alone and found Alan Clarkson, the head of administration. I asked him to retrieve my package from the office safe. I then went back to the conference room. A short while after, Alan came in bearing a cloth. I gently unwrapped the velvet package and laid out the jewellery collection on the table in front of Ellen Jacobs.
‘Do you recognise any of these?’
Her long slim fingers reached out and with sure movements, like a bird pecking at seeds, picked out four items and laid them to one side. Three pairs of gold earrings and one ring, each clean and glittering on the dark velvet. Some had small pearls set in them. The ring held a turquoise. They were striking pieces, modern and stylish.
‘These are mine,’ she said, unable to contain a certain pride in her voice.
‘They’re lovely.’
‘Not now,’ she said and raised her anguished eyes to mine.
‘Did you take them to McGill’s?’
‘No. Paddy did a’ that side of things. Ah made the jewellery and put an estimate on them. Then he took them round to McGill’s. Depending what happened Ah was to get twenty per cent. But as you can see, they didnae sell well.’
‘And now he’s dead. And so is McGill. You never met him? The pawnbroker?’
‘Once, when he was trying to price some of the bits and pieces too low. He was jist trying it on, so he was.’
‘Who do you think killed the pawnbroker?’
‘Ah don’t know.’
‘Did Paddy have a pal? An accomplice? Someone wanting to get even?’
‘Ah jist don’t know. He could have. But Ah never met anyone except Paddy.’
‘One last question, Ellen. Did you make keys for Paddy? From a mould?’
Her already flushed face went scarlet and the tears oozed again. She nodded.
I had no choice. I called Duncan Todd. He came straight round. He went through the same questions I did, but this time Ellen Jacobs was less given to weeping. Maybe Duncan had a gentler way with him. Maybe she’d unburdened everything with me.
Duncan was pursuing a point. ‘Are you sure Craven didnae give you any clues about where he got this?’ He pointed at the yellow ingots.
‘He never telt me names. Or addresses.’
‘How did he choose his targets?’
‘He kept his eye out. Always looking for folk wi’ money. Businessmen, stallholders, that kind of thing. He had a job as a gasman. Did you know that?’
‘Yes. And he went after Jews in particular?’
‘Aye. He said Jews had all the money.’
‘Did he know you were a Jew?’ Duncan asked.
‘Ah suppose so.’
‘Did you no’ mind?’
She flushed. ‘Not until this!’ She pointed at the gold.
I picked up on this. ‘How did you get into this, Ellen? You don’t seem like a crooked jeweller.’
She winced at the adjective. ‘Ah live in the Gorbals. Do you think Ah choose to?’
‘You go to Isaac Feldmann’s synagogue?’
She nodded. ‘Not since this. But Ah know Isaac.’
I kept pressing. ‘What about family?’
‘Ma mother lives wi’ me. Just the two of us. We got out in ’35 when they took away our rights bit by bit. Made us wear a yellow star in the street. Ah was just a wee girl. Ma father stayed on to try to keep the business going. He was a pharmacist. He said even the Nazis needed pills. Maybe more than anyone. He never got out.’
Her anger wipe
d the guilt from her face. She had more reasons than most for trying to climb out of the slums, make a life for herself. One of the new Scots. A descant to an old tune.
‘Where from?’
‘Berlin.’
‘Sie sprechen gutes Englisch. Obwohl mit einem Gorbals Akzent! Wo haben Sie es gelernt?’
‘An der Schule. Und hier. Offensichtlich. Und Sie? Ihr Deutsch ist gut.’
‘Aw right, you pair, that’ll dae. Speak Scots.’
I shrugged. ‘University, then the army. I was based in Lüneburg for a few months after the armistice. I got to know whom we’d been fighting. And why.’
‘Lüneburg? The Belsen trials?’
I nodded, surprised she knew the connection. She held my eyes for a beat and then turned to Duncan. ‘Are you going to arrest me?’
‘Ah’m thinking aboot it. You are an accomplice. Hell, you cut keys for him! Any reason why Ah shouldnae?’
She looked down. ‘Nane at a’. But can Ah speak to ma mum? She disnae speak English very well. She’ll be that worried.’
Duncan and I looked at each other. He shook his head.
‘Just leave your address. When Ah need to find you, Ah’ll come and get you.’
She looked surprised. I stared at Duncan. Getting soft in his old age? Or didn’t fancy the paperwork? Another question occurred to me.
‘Why did you come and tell us all this, Ellen?’
She stared, big-eyed, at me, then at Duncan. ‘Because this is wrong.’ She poked at the golden tablet. ‘Dead wrong. And Ah’m feart. Feart Ah’ll be next.’
‘Why would anyone want to kill you?’
‘Cos they’re annoyed? Or they think Ah’ve still got some gold? Who knows? But it’s a’ too close for ma liking.’
‘Have you told anyone else about this, Ellen?’
She reached out and picked up the ring she’d made. She rolled it through her fingers.
‘Ah told ma rabbi. Maurice Silver. Yesterday. He telt me to speak to you.’
TWELVE
There was no doubt Isobel Dunlop knew how to punish dirt. Every surface was scoured. If I took a long enough lie-in I’m sure I would have been ironed and starched where I lay. We didn’t talk much. I called her Mrs Dunlop. She called me Mr Brodie. She came in on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays and did three hours each time. Hitherto I’d sent my shirts off to the cleaners, but now, without any overt transaction that I was aware of, that duty had been taken over by Isobel. The costs seemed to balance out. And it was nice to be relieved of porridge-pot cleaning duties. However, in a stupid, guilty, little-boy way, I was glad Sam wasn’t around so that I wouldn’t feel embarrassed at Izzie finding two dents on my pillow.
Douglas Brodie 03 - Pilgrim Soul Page 6