‘Got it sewn up, haven’t they?’ Montgomerie tapped the notepad on his desk. ‘I’ve got another name for you. He’ll be in the ned category, sub category, apprentice. One “Neutron John”.’
‘Neutron John,’ sighed King, writing in the file. ‘Don’t know how they get those names.’
‘Real name McCusker, Bernard.’
King stopped writing. ‘He…’
‘Murdered Bill McGarrigle, bruised my ribs and smashed Piper’s knee.’
‘What’s the connection with the Jardines?’
So Montgomerie told him that the collator had McCusker listed as a known associate of Dolan, et al. He also told him about the guns and explosives found under McCusker’s floorboards and about the pickaxe handles and jemmies found in the wardrobe belonging to the selfsame felon.
There are two basic methods of conducting an interrogation. One involves the use of electrodes, saturated towels and coshes. The other method involves the subject being left alone in a small, sparsely furnished room, or sometimes left in the company of a stony-faced and totally mute constable. The subject’s anxiety level then begins to rise and when it has reached a point where the subject is screaming inside his skull, a police officer enters the room, sits down, opens a packet of fags and smiles, effectively saying ‘Let’s be friends.’ By the time King and Montgomerie entered the interview room Cleopatra McCusker was tearing out her hair.
Montgomerie sat in front of her and took out a packet of cigarettes. She snatched one and pushed it between her lips with trembling fingers. Casually Montgomerie selected a cigarette for himself and lit it, then extended the match half way across the table. Cleopatra McCusker leaned forward to meet it and, catching her fag, inhaled deeply and then sighed, exhaling the smoke. To King it was not unlike watching someone come up for air after a long time under water, or watching a junkie get his fix.
‘I didn’t know about they guns and things,’ she said before Montgomerie had opened his pad.
Coolly he opened his notepad and turned to the first blank page. He took the tip from his ballpoint, looked at Cleopatra McCusker, smiled and said, ‘Yes, you did.’
‘Don’t know much.’
‘All right. Tell us what you do know and then tell us the rest.’
‘He brought the guns in last week,’ she said, burning down the cigarette as though it was stuck in a furnace flue.
‘Alone?’
‘Aye.’
‘How did he get them to your house?’
‘He had this van.’
‘Who looked over his flat to check it was an OK plank?’
The first silence.
‘How long did he say he’d be keeping the armoury?’ Montgomerie passed on quickly to keep her talking. Nice easy questions. For the moment.
‘Two weeks.’
‘When exactly did he bring them in?’
‘Last week.’
‘Today’s Sunday, hen. So did he bring them in after last Sunday or before?’
‘Before, sir.’
King winced. Sir. Dinna anger the laird.
‘How long before?’
‘A few days.’
‘So you’ve had them for close on two weeks?’
She nodded and dogged her fag in the plastic ashtray. She screwed it down in to the tray even though she had an inch of good smoke left and by the time she’d finished grinding with her bony hand the cigarette was just a pile of shredded filter and paper and weed.
‘You don’t of course have any idea what the guns were to be used for?’
She shook her head. Of course not.
‘That’s what “Jug” McLintock said.’ King spoke matter-of-factly to Montgomerie.
‘Uh-huh,’ grunted Montgomerie. ‘We’ll give him another hour before we go back.’
Cleopatra McCusker’s eyes flashed backwards and forwards between the two officers.
‘Not feeling too happy?’ asked Montgomerie.
‘Been inside one of these rooms before, have you?’ asked King.
The woman nodded.
‘Tell us. We’ll be checking anyway.’
‘Och, shoplifting, breach of the peace,’ said the woman, shaking her head.
‘It’s a big step up from that to armed robbery.’ Montgomerie tapped the ash from his cigarette into the ashtray and dogged the remains. ‘Sure you’re ready for it?’
‘I’m not involved.’
‘You’re in up to your ears, hen,’ said Montgomerie.
‘Aiding and abetting, conspiracy to rob,’ said King. ‘We’ve been talking to Jug.’
‘I’d like another cigarette,’ said the woman.
‘I’d like a statement,’ growled Montgomerie.
‘Away tae fuck.’
‘When did you first meet up with Jug and Steamroller?’ asked King.
‘In the Fleur de Lys,’ said the woman before she could stop herself.
‘Yes, we know where,’ said King. ‘The time confuses us.’
‘I don’t remember.’
‘Yes, you do. You went along with Neutron one night. You met up with Jug and Steamroller and another guy.’ King looked at the ceiling and clicked his fingers, a man trying to recall something. ‘Oh yeah, that’s it. Some ned called Sam Dolan. He had a handle—“heavy” or something.’
‘The Weight,’ said the woman. ‘They call him “the Weight”, so they do.’
Montgomerie thought she was standing up well, very anxious, a few tears but not distraught like some women would be. She had the body of a Belsen inmate but mentally she was tough, tough, tough.
Still, they were getting there, slowly. King took a packet of cigarettes from his jacket and offered her one. ‘Have a smoke, hen,’ he said gently.
Montgomerie took the cue and slammed his hand down hard against the table so suddenly and violently that the woman jumped backwards. ‘Right, Madam McCusker,’ he snarled. ‘No more fannying around. Your man’s got you in up to your ears, you’re using your flat as a weapons store—you’re planning something, something big. What? When?’
‘Don’t know,’ she screamed. ‘Don’t bloody know nothing, nothing.’
‘Yes, you do.’
She started sniffling. Then she stopped herself and glared at him. Defiant. It was her against Montgomerie. So far as she was concerned neither the WPC nor King were in the room.
‘You’re in deep.’
‘No!’
He stood up and leaned over her.
She said, simply, ‘Sit down.’
‘When I come back,’ growled Montgomerie, his face close to hers, ‘when I come back you and me will have a talk. Without an audience.’ He walked out of the room, pulling the door shut behind him.
‘He has a bit of a temper,’ said King, sitting in the chair previously occupied by Montgomerie. ‘Would you like that cigarette now?’
‘Aye,’ sniffed the woman wiping her eyes.
‘It’s a tough life you’ve got.’ He handed her a cigarette and struck a match. He lit one for himself. ‘I mean, you’re not exactly rolling in clover in your flat, from what I hear, and Neutron’s not the sort of man a woman of your age could do with.’ He pulled on his cigarette. ‘Maybe he can thrill the young ones but when a woman is in her thirties she needs a bit of stability, a bit of reliability, someone who can help her build a home.’
‘Aye.’ She smiled and nodded. The masochistic resignation to life’s lot: play the hand you’re dealt and don’t argue with the big dealer.
‘How long have you been with him?’
‘Ten years, on and off.’
‘Knocks you about, aye?’
‘Oh, aye,’ in a tone which suggested it would be abnormal if he didn’t.
‘Kids?’
‘No,’ she said after a short silence which King thought meant that there were probably two or three young McCuskers currently thriving in a foster home.
‘Much life of your own?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Friends of your own, ev
er get a night out with the girls, get to the bingo?’
‘Away, me? No.’
‘Not ever?’
‘I’m to be inside waiting on him coming home. I only get out with him. He has the keys.’
‘He takes you out for a drink?’
‘Sometimes.’
‘Not anywhere nice, though. I mean, the Fleur de Lys is hardly a ladies bar.’ King pulled on his fag.
‘I’ve been in worse.’
‘Like the Delayney bars?’
‘Aye.’ She drew hard on the cigarette, but when she exhaled only a little smoke came out of her nostrils. It gave King an indication of the state of her lungs. ‘I mean, you can sit down in the Fleur; in Delayney’s you stand in the sawdust and listen to the men talk.’
‘That’s right.’ King nodded. ‘Come to think of it, it was fairly slack when I was in the Fleur. Mind you, that was mid-afternoon.’
‘It’s slack all the time,’ she said. ‘He can’t make it pay.’
‘Why?’
‘Don’t know. There’s always somebody working, though. On the building, I mean. I think it’s falling down.’
‘You sound like you know the owner. Neutron making his way up the social ladder, is he?’
‘Och, he likes to think he is. He’s just a wee nobody. Takes a drink with the head man and he thinks he’s one of the directors.’
‘You can see through it all, aye?’
‘Aye, buttering him up to play their game. Have a wee drink, son, loading up the gun for Neutron to fire it.’
‘That’d be Phil Jardine.’ King took a drag on his cigarette and looked up at the light-bulb.
‘Aye, that’s him. He’s better than his brother. Tiny’s a bastard.’
‘So he is,’ said King.
‘You know him?’ She looked at him.
‘Oh, aye, know of him anyway. He’s ruined a lot of people, sent them to the gaol and got fat on their efforts.’
‘Aye, but he’s looked after them.’
‘Neutron told you that, did he?’
‘No. Phil Jardine.’
‘The man himself.’
‘Aye. He came over to us when we were in the Fleur. Phil Jardine was with the others, talking to the owner of the bar, Spicer, him with the funny wee arm, talking away like, and Phil Jardine came over to us and told us that it should go all right on Tuesday but if it didn’t he’d see us all right.’
‘He said that.’
‘Aye, that he’d be looking after us.’
‘Don’t believe a word of it.’
‘No?’
‘No. Anybody who gets involved with the Jardines ends up broke and in a mess. All busted up.’
‘They get to do the job, but they’re taken care of.’
‘I know—Phil Jardine told you. You’ve seen where he lives, have you?’
‘Aye.’ She nodded.
That was an unexpected bonus.
‘So how’s he going to keep a place like that going and look after all the wives and women of all the guys doing bird on his account?’
‘Maybe. It’s pretty big.’
‘It is large enough.’
‘Aye, it’s no splendid, but what’s he got in here?’
‘Enough,’ said King.
‘Four rooms, maybe five.’ She dragged on her cigarette. ‘Those West End flats are big but his is falling down like the Fleur. And it’s not all that well furnished, just a few sticks and bits of carpet.’
‘Aye, but it still costs,’ said King. ‘What do you think of Spicer, the guy with the little arm? You don’t sound as though you like him?’
‘No. He’s all…’ she shivered.
‘He doesn’t turn you on.’
‘No. I don’t fancy him at all. He fancies himself as a ladies’ man and he’s always got a young girl somewhere near.’
‘You don’t have to talk to him, though. I mean, he was over there with the Jardines and Neutron and Jug and the rest, planning it out, and you were away in the corner. That’s not so bad.’
‘No, it wasn’t. I was with Jug’s missus and Steamrollers girl. We were having a blether. That’s who Phil Jardine was talking to, us, all of us three. He came over and said we’d be all right after they’d done the job if the polis showed up.’
‘I see. He told all three of you?’
‘Aye, that’s how I believed him. I’d be a bit suspicious if he told just me.’ She smiled. King smiled back. ‘I didn’t get near that guy with the little arm that night but Neutron brought him to our house a few nights later. He had a look round.’
‘At the floorboards and carpets?’
‘I suppose so. I didn’t see. I was sent to the bedroom.’
‘That was a few days before the guns came?’
‘Aye, how did you know that? Did Jug tell you?’
‘Maybe. I know quite a bit really.’ But you don’t know about the job. The other man said you didn’t.’
‘We don’t know everything,’ said King. ‘We know a little.’
‘You’re a good man,’ said Cleopatra McCusker, smiling. ‘You’re good to talk to. You can come round and see me, you know, afterwards.’
‘Dare say we’ll be seeing each other again,’ said King.
‘What I can tell you is that the job will be pulled in Glasgow.’
‘Aye, in Maryhill.’ She smiled. ‘Bet you don’t know where.’
‘Queens Cross,’ said King confidently. But it was a shot in the dark. ‘I went there yesterday to see a guy.’
‘Aye.’ The woman sounded disappointed. ‘The Bank on the corner, the little hut thing. How did you know?’
‘How did you know, that’s more to the point?’ said King.
‘Neutron told me when he was drunk,’ she said. ‘All the things he’s going to do with that money.’
‘I bet he also told you not to tell anyone,’ said King.
The WPC cleared her throat. Cleopatra McCusker went white and began to cry again, only this time she didn’t just weep, she bawled and hammered her tiny fists on the table.
Montgomerie was waiting in the corridor, leaning against the wall smoking a cigarette. He fell into step with Richard King as he walked away from the interview room.
‘How did it go?’ asked Montgomerie.
‘Gold dust, my son,’ said King. ‘Pure gold dust.’
It was Fair Sunday, midday.
CHAPTER 8
Fair Sunday 1.30 p.m.
Donoghue, Sussock, King and Montgomerie sat in Donoghue’s office. They were dressed in their shirt-sleeves and all except Donoghue had unclipped their ties. The windows were open but the temperature in the room was in the high 80’s. The blue fug from Donoghue’s pipe didn’t help either; it hung in layers, rising slowly. King had written up an account of his interview with Cleopatra McCusker in a neat longhand and had had it photocopied for distribution. While King was writing up his report Montgomerie was in a bar, having been driven there by the heat in search of a lager or two. The meeting caught him unawares and he reported his search for Bernie McCusker, alias Neutron John, sucking ferociously on a mint as he spoke. Donoghue gave a succinct verbal account of his meeting with Carol Spicer nee McDonald. Sussock was silent for most of the meeting, his thoughts being continually dragged back to the thirty-six hours stretching in front of him and the 53p in his pocket with which to survive. Donoghue was the last to speak. He ended his feedback by re-filling his pipe and asking for comments.
‘Bill McGarrigle didn’t know what he was stumbling on,’ said Montgomerie.
‘Or maybe he did,’ replied Donoghue, flicking his lighter. ‘Maybe he knew fine that it would make him as a journalist. Anyway, this isn’t getting us very far. What have we got, a solicitor who’s as crooked as the Highland Way, who’s involved with organized crime and who may or may not be party to a bank raid which may or may not go ahead now we have the hardware. He’s also linked with the murder of Bill McGarrigle and the Fair Friday murder of five years ago.’
‘Po
ps up in all the wrong places, does Spicer,’ said King.
Donoghue grunted and tapped the sheet of paper in front of him. ‘No prints on any of the hardware and all the serial numbers of the guns had been filed off, the ones inside the mechanism as well as the ones on the stock.’
‘That more than anything indicates professionalism,’ said King.
‘Absolutely,’ agreed Donoghue. ‘So where do we go from here? I think I know but I’m not going to do all the work.’ He paused. The group was silent. ‘Well, firstly then, will the bank raid go ahead on Tuesday a.m.?’
‘Odd day to have a raid,’ said Montgomerie. ‘Friday a.m. I could understand, but Tuesday…’ He shook his head.
‘It’s not just any Tuesday.’ Donoghue was irritated by Montgomerie’s lack of insight.
‘It’s their first working day after the Fair,’ growled Sussock. ‘There’ll be big withdrawals on Tuesday morning because all the punters will be broke.’
‘That’s right,’ said Donoghue, ‘and there will be less police on duty than there were on Fair Friday. It must be one of the few days of the year when big withdrawals are expected and when police cover is only normal. It’s my guess that, if they have a secondary supply of weapons, the raid will go ahead.’
‘We can’t ignore the possibility,’ said King. ‘Especially as the bank they’ve earmarked is an easy one to knock over.’
‘Oh?’ Donoghue raised his eyebrows.
‘Yes. It’s a temporary structure sitting on the corner of a piece of wasteground. Little more than a garden shed.’
‘It does indeed sound likely,’ agreed Donoghue. ‘So we’ll assume the raid is on. Now McCusker alias Neutron John and his pals are already in some sort of safe house in the West End. We have to locate them.’
‘Big place to cover,’ said Montgomerie.
‘It isn’t impossible. King, do you have photographs of any of these characters?’
‘Yes, sir, the Jardine brothers and Jug and Steamroller and I think there’s a distant shot of The Weight.’
‘Good. Duplicate them and have them distributed to the uniformed branch. McCusker will be keeping his head down. By now he knows that we know he killed Bill McGarrigle, and he’s wanted for police assault, but the others might venture into the bars. I also want you to lend yourself to the hunt, Montgomerie.’ Montgomerie nodded.
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