One Hundred And Twelve Days

by Ian Todd

  “Bit, in the meantime, Collette, hen, is there any chance ae us hivving a wee look at the letters…the signed statements, that Pricilla Presley and the others left in your capable hauns?” the Sarge hid asked her, gently, politely.

  “Letters…statements…the others?” she remembered croaking, confused, sounding as if she wis talking fae inside a tunnel, as the room starting tae close in oan her.

  “Pricilla Presley, Sandra Henderson, Bridget Fordyce, Susan Gilroy, Samantha Spence, Alice Broon, Jacqueline Diamond, Beth Angel, Vicky Baker and last, but no least, the lassie that hid haunded them o’er tae ye, Susan McFarlane…aw ex-serving poliswummin, aw sexually harassed, abused and assaulted, every wan ae them, forced tae leave the polis service in the toon by The Irish Brigade.”

  “O’er a period ae fifteen years,” The DC hid added. “Apart fae Susan McFarlane, they aw signed statements, which we’re led tae believe, ur in your possession. We’d like a wee swatch ae them…if that’s awright wae yersel, that is?”

  “Bit...Lesley.”

  “Lesley? Wid that be Lesley Bare, Collette hen? Ah’m sorry tae hiv tae inform ye, bit Lesley Bare’s deid, so she is. She wis murdered yesterday morning by that man ae hers,” The Sarge hid suddenly hit her wae, as Collette failed tae duck, as the ceiling in the room hid fallen doon oan tap ae that heid ae hers a second or two before she’d spewed her two slices ae toast aw across the tap ae the table and collapsed aff ae her chair in shock.

  She couldnae remember how she ended up back in the flat. It wis aw a blur. Noo they wur back. She’d watched them arrive doon oan the street. They’d been sitting in the car. Why wur they waiting? Wur they wanting tae make her sweat? Wis that aw part ae the interrogation procedure used by the murder squad teams? She’d come across a wee haun written note sitting oan her kitchen table. It said they’d meet her in her flat at ten o’clock oan the dot. It wis only when she noticed the car parking up doon oan the street that she realised who it wis that wis coming at ten o’clock. She peered oot through the curtains again and stiffened. The car hid jist pulled oot fae the kerb efter sitting fur twenty-odd minutes and heided alang the street in the direction ae Partick Hill. Whit wis happening tae her? Whit wis she supposed tae dae? She didnae hiv the letters…the statements. She wis sure she’d gied them tae that guardian angel wan, Superintendent Murdina something, who wis obviously a figment ae that imagination ae hers. Who wur these people? They wur claiming that she’d been a poliswummin up in Possil? She let oot another sob, unable tae stoap the tears running doon her cheeks, as she stumbled across the room and intae her wee kitchen tae sit at the table. Somewan hid telt her that her best pal, who wis seemingly called Lesley Bare, wis deid. Who hid telt her that? And where the hell hid the sergeant’s stripes that she wis twiddling wae between her fingers come fae, she asked hersel fur the umpteenth time that morning, looking doon at her hauns.

  Chapter Nine

  Sleazebag Donald, Glesga’s maist prolific skin-flick director ae seven films a week, quickly camouflaged his irritation jist in the nick ae time. Peter The Runner hid jist arrived unannounced oot ae the shadows fae behind wan ae his studio lights, jist as Henrik The Norwegian shot his bolt across the cheeks ae the arses ae Candy Strachan, Honest John McCaffrey’s bit ae stuff oan the side and that wife ae his at the same time.

  “Cut! Nice wan, Henrik,” he said tae the blond stud, hoping he’d goat the shot, switching the camera oan tae pause, as he heided fur his office. “Peter?” his voice chimed in welcome.

  “Fuck’s sake, Donald, whit’s happened tae yer face? Ye look like something oot ae The Three Musketeers, so ye dae,” Peter Paterson laughed.

  “It’s ma new director’s look. Dae ye like it? Ah based it oan the guy who done that Jesus painting that’s hinging up oot in Kelvingrove Art Gallery, whose name Ah cannae remember noo. Ah’ve goat a photo ae him somewhere oan ma desk, so Ah hiv.”

  “Dali. Salvador Dali.”

  “Aye, that’s him. Weird looking fucker, bit he’s goat the look. In the director’s game, ye’ve goat tae look the part as well, so ye hiv,” Donald said, gieing that weird looking face ae his a wee quick swatch in the cracked pub mirror hinging up oan the wall, tae the left ae his untidy desk.

  “So, how’s tricks, Donald?”

  “Ach, ye know whit like,” Salvador replied, nodding tae the torn vinyl chair, wae the rusty metal springs attempting tae escape oot ae it, as he plapped that skinny arse ae his doon oan tae a bit that didnae hiv a tear oan it. “It’s no aw glamour, showbiz, so it’s no.”

  “Dis it no bother ye that some big foreign stud is pumping fuck oot ae that wife ae yours every day and night, Donald?” Peter asked, waving through the windae tae Donald’s wife, Betty Carlton, his ex-school lollipop lady and Candy Strachan, as they shared the same match, lighting up fur their wee unexpected smoke break as Hendrik stood picking his nose wae his thumb as that hard-on ae his started tae rapidly recede.

  “It’s business…it’s no like real sex, so it’s no,” Donald shrugged, as if that wis awright then.

  “Fuck, Candy disnae hing aboot either, dis she?”

  “Aye, Ah know. She’s in bits, so she is, the poor wee soul. Even though she hidnae been seeing him fur long, he’d telt her he wis gonnae leave that wife ae his fur her. Who wid’ve expected Honest John tae cop his whack like that, eh? She wis supposed tae hiv been meeting up wae him fur a wee discreet lunchtime, humpy-pumpy-hide-the-sausage session in the back seat ae the roller in amongst the trees, jist alang fae the wee canal bridge up in Cadder. Ah’d gied her an extended lunch break as well. She wis staunin oan the corner ae Park Road waiting fur him tae pick her up, when it aw kicked aff. She could see whit wis happening further alang Woodside Road. The pillion oan the back ae the motorbike who did aw the damage, hid the cheek tae gie her a wave oan the way past. She’s convinced he knew her. Why else gie her a wee friendly wave?”

  “Aye, well, Donald, it couldnae hiv happened tae a mair deserving basturt, eh?” Peter said, looking at him wae they steely eyes ae his.

  “Oh, fuck, aye,” Donald stammered. “Don’t get me wrang. Ah’m certainly no shedding a tear fur that fat grippy basturt. Anyhow, whit kin Ah dae ye fur?”

  “Ach, jist a wee catch up.”

  “A…a wee catch up? Whit kind ae wee catch up?”

  “Whit’s the score wae Black Pat and that wife ae his then?”

  “Them? Why ur ye asking somewan like me? Y’know me, Peter. Ah’m always that busy. It’s me that should be asking somewan like you whit the score is wae that poisoner. That’s another wan that deserved aw he goat.”

  “Aye, bit dae ye no think it’s bang oot ae order that poor Elsie, Black Pat’s wee wife, copped her whack as well?”

  “Ma money’s oan Wan-bob and Charlie Hastie.”

  “Whit makes ye say that then?”

  “Well, look whit they’re oan remand fur. A poor wee nurse? That pair ae basturts hiv nae respect fur wummin, so they hivnae. Cross them and they’ll take anywan doon that gets in their way.”

  “So, ye think it wis Wan-bob and Charlie Hastie that wur responsible fur running o’er the wee nurse then?”

  “They basturts widnae hiv done it themsels. Why wid they, when they’ve goat Peter The Plant, The Goat or Danny Murphy’s squad ae psychos tae dae it fur them?”

  “So, who wis it that took oot Streaky John McGinnis then?”

  “Ah’ve absolutely nae idea. Obviously the same wans that took care ae Black Pat and that missus ae his.”

  “Whit aboot John The Haun and Willie Commotion?” Peter persisted, changing the tune slightly, watching Donald closely.

  “Them? Oh, Ah think they’ve baith disappeared, so they hiv.”

  “Ah know that, bit wis it voluntary or hiv they been put oot tae pasture as well?”

  “The bizzies, two wummin, wur up at John The Haun’s hoose across in Partick Hill looking fur him. According tae that wife ae his, she hisnae seen him since Saturday morni…”

  “Aye, bit fu
rget Maggie, Donald. Whit hiv you picked up?” Peter interrupted him.

  “Look, it’s only a rumour, bit Ah think he goat nabbed by Crackling Chris and Steady Teddy, two ae Danny Murphy’s boys, coming oot ae The International oan Saturday efternoon, pished, jist before it shut its doors at hauf two in the efternoon. Ah heard he’d been sitting babbling a heap ae shite in the corner tae himsel…looking petrified, so he wis.”

  “So, why dae ye think somewan like him wid be oot and aboot, drinking in The International oan a Saturday efternoon, if he wis involved in getting shot ae a polis inspector? Surely he wid’ve known that, despite being locked up in the Bar-L, Wan-bob wid’ve been scouring Maryhill fur him…unless he hidnae heard whit hid happened tae Black Pat?”

  “How wid Ah know? Who knows whit goes oan in the heids ae that lot?” Donald retorted defensively.

  “Right, back tae Streaky John.”

  “Ah’ve telt ye…”

  “Donald, stoap fucking me aboot.”

  Silence.

  “Look, don’t go quoting me noo, Peter. Ah’ll deny everything, so Ah will,” Donald whispered, sounding slightly hysterical, as if that wid save that skinny arse ae his fae Wan-bob’s boys, as he quickly looked aboot. “Ah heard…Ah heard that it wis supposed tae hiv been done by Gordon Sizzles and Joe Paste.”

  “So, how did they get in tae the hoose? Surely he widnae hiv been as daft as tae open his front door tae that pair ae psychos?”

  “Look, Ah don’t know the full story, bit seemingly, Streaky owed Joe a grand.”

  “Aye, bit opening yer door tae two ae Danny Murphy’s heavies wae everything that’s being gaun oan wae that inspector being blasted across in Hillheid?”

  “Joe Paste wis married tae Streaky John’s sister, Babs, fur twelve years.”

  “So?”

  “So, Joe wis still oan talking terms wae her, so he wis.”

  “Whit the fuck’s that goat tae dae wae anything?”

  “There wis nae bad blood. Streaky wid’ve trusted him…Christ, hiv ye met Babs? They hid four snappers thegither. There’s no way Joe wid’ve wasted his son’s uncle and his ex-brother-in-law…or so Streaky obviously thought, the daft basturt.”

  “So, this is aw gen then?”

  “Peter, this is whit Ah’ve picked up. Is it the gospel according tae Matthew, Mark, Luke and the Pope? Who knows. There’s probably a wee bit ae shite in there somewhere, bit that’s the gist ae it, as far as Ah’ve been led tae believe.”

  “Right, a wee change ae tack, Donald.”

  “Oh, aye?” Donald grumbled suspiciously, wishing The Runner wid fuck aff and let him get back tae creating art.

  “The McGregors?”

  “Ye whit?” Salvador Dali gasped.

  “Ye heard me.”

  “Whit aboot them?” Donald quietly screeched, too fast, sweat breaking oot oan that Musketeer foreheid ae his.

  “Whit ur they up tae?”

  “How the hell wid Ah know? They’re across oan the south side ae the river,” Donald replied fearfully, really sweating noo.

  “Donald, stoap farting aboot.”

  “Ah’m telling ye, Peter. Cross ma heart and hope tae die,” Donald retorted, crossing that heart ae his wae wan ae they dirt-filled long finger nails ae his.

  Silence.

  “Ye’re sure noo?”

  “Peter, Ah only know whit ah know and Ah’ve telt ye everything…bit,” he added, licking his lips nervously, turning and glancing through the office windae tae see whit his film stars wur up tae.

  “Bit whit?”

  “Look, it didnae come fae a reliable source. Ye know whit the toon’s like. Fucking Chinese Whispers oan speed…”

  “C’mone, Donald. Nothing ye say tae me will go any further. You know that,” Peter coaxed him encouragingly, taking his wallet oot ae his back pocket before lifting oot a thick wad ae twenty pound notes, as Sleazebag Donald licked his dry lips again wae that purple, sponge-white coated tongue ae his.

  “Ah heard that Black Pat and his boys hid nothing tae dae wae that polis inspector’s murder up that closemooth across in Hillheid.”

  Chapter Ten

  “Arrggghhh!”

  “C’mone, Irene, hen, ye’re daeing brilliant, so ye ur. Jist wan mair wee push and it’ll be aw o’er wae,” Senga soothed encouragingly, as the expectant mother howled the delivery room doon and the baby’s matted, hairy heid, suddenly appeared.

  “Okay, Irene, jist take a wee breather. That’s it, hen. Ye’re daeing jist fine, so ye ur. We’re nearly there.”

  “Jist hiv another wee gulp ae the gas and air while ye’re hivving a wee break, hen,” Marge Riley, the supervising midwife invited, as the mother snatched the mask oot ae her haun and started gulping it doon like wan ae Winston Churchill’s finest cigars.

  “Oh ma God! Never again! Arrggghhh!”

  “Right, Irene, we’ve goat tae get the baby oot noo. We widnae want it tae become distressed noo, wid we?” Senga coaxed the patient, as the midwife took back the mask. “Okay, here we go. Nice and gently.”

  “Arrggghhh!” Irene howled and wheezed, lifting her heid and shoulders up aff the pillow, her erms held up tae the heavens, as Senga caught the new-born and lay it doon oan the bed between the mother’s legs, tae the sound ae the baby’s wailing.

  “Oh, it’s a wee lassie, Irene. Ye’ve goat whit ye wished fur, hen,” Senga cooed, as she quickly clamped aff the umbilical cord before cutting it and lifting the wean oan tae the wee table trolley.

  The midwife didnae say anything as she stood observing Senga, as she gently, bit quickly, cleaned the baby wae a towel, before wrapping it up in a cellular blanket and held it across tae the shattered, bit beaming, new mother oan the bed.

  “Oh ma God, Senga! It’s a girl…a wee lassie,” Irene cried oot before bursting oot greeting, as Senga wiped away a tear fae her ain cheek wae the back ae her wrist, minding tae avoid the blood and placenta oan the rubber gloves she wis still wearing.

  Irene Robertson, alang wae Sandra Dalrymple, hid been wan ae Senga’s best pals when they’d attended St David’s Primary School, a stane’s throw fae where she wis noo staunin, across oan St James’s Road. They’d done everything thegither, until they’d been forced tae part ways when Irene’s ma and da hid been moved up tae Milton while Senga’s hid ended up in Springburn, efter the Toonheid hid been cleared. She didnae know whit hid become ae the Dalrymples efter Sandra died ae leukaemia when she wis jist ten years auld. This wis Irene’s fourth wean, the other three being boys. Senga couldnae believe that Irene, wan ae her best pals fae when she wis younger, hid hid her first wean when she wis fourteen. Unbelievable. Thirty minutes later while she wis getting cleaned up, Marge Riley, the midwife joined her.

  “So, how many is that noo, Senga, hen?”

  “Irene?”

  “Naw, ya eejit. You?

  “That wis ma fifteenth,” Senga replied smiling.

  “Fifteen? And ye’re still greeting?”

  “Aye, Ah know. Ah cannae help it. It’s jist so powerful being part ae something so…so, wonderful, especially when it’s somewan Ah used tae run aboot wae when Ah wis at primary school. Where Ah’m working jist noo, the outcome is usually the opposite ae whit took place through there in the delivery room.”

  “Aye, Ah kin remember ma first time. They hid tae gie me a big skoof ae the air and gas before Ah fainted,” Marge confessed, as the baith ae them laughed. “Ah thought ma career wis o’er before it hid even started.”

  “God, Ah’m so shattered. That wis a long wan, so it wis. The longest yet.”

  “Eleven hours? Christ, Ah’ve seen some wummin lying through there fur two or three days, so Ah hiv, before we’ve hid tae induce them.”

  “So, how did Ah dae then?”

  “When’s the panel?”

  “Friday…Friday morning.”

  “And the exam?”

  “Two weeks ago.”

  “Aye, well, Ah widnae worry, Senga, hen. Ye’re a total natural, so ye ur. Hi
v ye never thought ae daeing midwifery full-time doon here in The Rottenrow?” Marge asked her, slipping oot ae her uniform.

  “Naw. Despite being born in this very building, Ah’ve always hid an inclination tae be a district nurse since Ah wis a wean, when Big Pat Broon, The Green Lady, used tae stoap and spend a bit a time talking tae me, Irene and Sandra, a wee pal ae mine who died when she wis ten, up the tenement closemooths in Glebe Street, back in the mid sixties. She wis always brilliant tae us.”

  “The Green Lady? Christ, Ah hivnae heard that expression being used in a while. So, who’s yer mentor then?”

  “Big Pat,” the baith chimed thegither, laughing.

  “Seven ae ma births hiv been hame wans across in Dennistoun.”

  “Aye, well, that makes sense noo. Yer birthing skills and how ye relate tae the mothers ur excellent, so they ur.”

  “Aye, it’s been nearly a year noo that Ah’ve been getting away fur a few days every month tae six weeks, tae work wae Pat and aw the wummin…the mums. They absolutely adore her.”

  “Ach, Ah’m sure ye’ll be the same when ye get yer ain patch, Senga, hen. So, whit’s Pat saying aboot it?”

  “She thinks Ah’ll be okay wae the panel. She says it could take a few months before they let me know. The only issues she kin see is that Ah’ve maybe been a bit too long working in casualty and ma age.”

  “Aye, Ah kin see why she’d think that, bit ye’ve done yer general elsewhere, hiven’t ye?”

  “Ah’ve spent some time across at The Sick Kids and Pat’s been supervising me wae a wee group ae elderly patients.”

  “So, ye know wan end ae an incontinence pad fae the other then?” Marge asked wae a twinkle in they blue eyes ae hers.

  “Well, it’s funny ye should mention that,” Senga replied, pulling her dress o’er her heid, as the baith ae them laughed.

  “Well, Ah widnae worry, Senga. They’d be daft no tae snap up somewan like you, so they wid.”

  Chapter Eleven

  “Gonnae get that, hen?” Isa Temple shouted through tae her fourteen-year-auld daughter, Sophie, as her letterbox rattled.