One Hundred And Twelve Days

by Ian Todd

  “An upside-down heart with an arrow piercing through it,” Kim Sui hid purred at her.

  “And that beautiful fragrance?”

  “Hyacinth with a hint of blackcurrant buds,” Kim Sui hid replied knowledgably. “The name is based on a famous French novelist, Francoise Sagan’s ‘La Chamade’ and is meant to represent the fast beating of a heart in love. Think of a drum roll,” Kim Sui hid sang tae Pearl, like the good saleswummin that she wis, even back then, although everywan hid been getting the perfume oan the hoose.

  Ever the romantic, Pearl hid dived right in. It did hiv a distinct smell. None ae the other lassies, or her, hid ever used it in the past, so when Pearl hid arrived at The Dial Inn, smelling like the contents ae a bottle ae Ribena, Senga hid wanted tae throw up there and then. Insteid, she’d jist jumped up and heided fur the ladies and threw up doon wan ae the lavvy pans, before escaping up the road in a taxi. Lizzie hid phoned The Royal before she left fur work, tae tell them that she wis no well.

  It wis noo obvious that Pearl still hid feelings fur Johnboy. Since she’d been back, Pearl’s past feeling towards him hidnae been mentioned. Why wid they? Everything hid started tae flash back tae her in the taxi up the road. The fact that the lassies hidnae mentioned Pearl’s past infatuation wae Johnboy tae her wis noo obvious. Who else knew? If everything wis above board, why hid Pearl no mentioned that she’d been up at the flat? Why hid Johnboy no bloody said either? Whit hid been the big secret? She felt physically sick. She gripped the edge ae the table tae try and stoap her heid fae spinning. She needed a pee, bit she wis afraid tae staun up. Aw they years, well eighteen months, ae writing tae him and travelling doon in aw weathers tae visit him. The letters that they’d shared their deepest feelings in, despite knowing some faceless censor wis reading them. The missed opportunities ae getting oan wae her life, knocking back countless offers ae dates only tae be betrayed, by…by the pair ae them. A two-faced minx and a lying two-bit gangster. Pearl, who wis supposed tae be her best pal? Whit hid Pearl goat that she hidnae, she wondered. Whit wis she supposed tae dae noo, she kept asking hersel, looking across at the radio as Bruce Springsteen’s ‘Born Tae Run’ spewed oot ae it. Run? Run where? She needed tae find a job, away fae Glesga, bit the impending trial meant that she’d hiv tae come back. She widnae be able tae cope seeing them thegither. The phone oan the sideboard unit kicked aff again. It hid been ringing aff and oan maist ae the morning. She knew that it wid be the lassies, wanting tae find oot whit wis wrang wae her efter her early, unannounced, hasty exit, the night before. It certainly widnae be Johnboy. He never phoned. In fact, when she thought aboot it, he’d been a bit cool towards her lately, especially if she brought up the subject ae whit part ae Scotland she should try fur a job…the cheating, scheming basturt. How could she hate him though, efter everything they’d been through? She’d lain in her bed, wanting tae get up and dash roond tae that flat ae his tae gie him a right good slap, tae demand a reason why he’d betrayed her so soon efter being released. Whit wis she gonnae say tae the lassies…her ma? How wis she gonnae cope…the humiliation? How could he dae this tae her...and wae Pearl ae aw people? She’d never fully appreciated how Michelle Hope must’ve felt efter he’d betrayed her by sleeping wae poor Michelle oan the night ae her eighteenth birthday, while arranging tae go oot oan a date wae her rival…i.e. Senga Jackson, the same week. How Michelle must’ve hated her…jist as she noo hated Pearl Campbell, the wee sleekit cow. It wis obvious noo that she’d jacked in her Highland job because Johnboy wis noo back oan the scene. How could she? Oh God, she thought, surely Pearl and Johnboy hidnae been corresponding wae each other while she wis writing and trooping doon tae Dumfries every month? Whit a mug she’d been. Tony Gucci wid’ve known fine well whit hid been gaun oan…aw The Mankys wid’ve. Whit wis she tae dae noo? Pretend that nothing hid happened? Wait until she saw whit way the wind wis blowing? She knew she couldnae dae that. It wisnae in her nature tae lie, tae pretend everything wis hunky-dory when it wisnae. She’d always worn her heart oan her sleeve. Everywan knew when she wis happy or doon. Lizzie wid be in there like a shot as soon as she came hame. And Johnboy? The thought ae him hivving been in bed wae her so-called best pal made her want tae be physically sick. She couldnae dae it…no efter this, she telt hersel, as she began tae weep again. Her life, her dreams, her future wis o’er wae…if there ever hid been a future fur her and Johnboy.

  Chapter Forty Seven

  Danny Wilson hid jist started rattling the tips ae they fingers ae his, tom-tom style, oan the tap ae the dashboard, efter turning the car radio up full-blast, as Low Rider’s ‘War’ erupted oot ae the door carb speakers while they sat in the queue ae traffic, at the corner ae West Regent and West Nile Street. That wisnae the only explosion that erupted, as the driver joined in, his fingers picking up the beat oan the steering wheel, jist before his door wis wrenched open and a big fat haun hauled him oot ae the stationary car by the throat.

  “Whit the fuck…” the passenger yelped, cringing back in fright against the speaker oan his side ae the car, muffling the musical output momentarily, before his door wis yanked open and he joined his pal oan the wet road surface oan the other side ae the gleaming BMW.

  “Stop or I’ll call the police!” a hero shouted fae behind them, before quickly withdrawing back intae the bosom ae his car and his wife’s erms, as Baby Huey turned and scowled at him as he stood there, stamping oan the side ae Chazza Hamilton’s heid, as he lay, choking, semi-unconscious at his feet.

  The only other sounds tae be heard in the street, other than the ticking o’er ae stationary engines, wur the terrifying screams ae Danny Wilson’s shrieking voice bouncing aff the ornate Victorian walls ae the buildings oan either side ae the street, as he wis being battered senseless by Simon Epstein and Peter Paterson oan the pavement side ae the car, each skilfully wielding a baseball bat. Although the assault couldnae hiv lasted mair than a minute, there wis still time fur Peter tae start panning in the windaes ae the new car wae that baseball bat ae his, as the sound ae car horns erupted fae the drivers behind them, who wur sitting, glued tae their seats, watching whit wis happening helplessly.

  Despite the obvious concern ae the drivers who hid witnessed the assault, Detective Sergeant Bob Clancy and his side-kick, PC Tam Asher, jist couldnae find wan person later oan, who felt they’d recognise the assailants, if they ever came across them again in a polis line-up.

  “So, the wan oan the driver’s side ae the Beamer that wis stamping oan the guys heid? Could ye describe him, sir?” asked PC Asher later.

  “A wee skinny guy.”

  “Tall wae fuzzy hair.”

  “Looked like he his wearing a patch oan his eye. Which side? Ah’m no sure.”

  “Just a normal looking animal, officer.”

  “Ah’m sure he wis wearing a coat…and a hat. Aye, he wis wearing a hat. Type? Ah cannae remember.”

  Detective Sergeant Clancy hidnae fared any better.

  “Naw, there wis four ae them, aw whacking the guy wae snooker cues, so they wur. Descriptions? Indistinguishable fae each other.”

  “Although Ah clocked whit wis happening, Ah wisnae wearing ma glasses.”

  “Definitely aw in their mid tae late forties. Nae question aboot it.”

  “Aye, they heided in the direction ae George Square.”

  “Saw them running roond the corner intae West Nile street.”

  “They causally walked up towards Hope Street behind us. Oh aye, of course Ah’m sure.”

  “Wan ae them hid a bad limp.”

  “Two ae them wur wearing matching cravats. Colour? Oh, Ah’m no sure. It wis dark and it hid started snowing, Sergeant.”

  Chapter Forty Eight

  Donnie Chisholm felt his body relax, as that arse ae his plapped itsel doon oan tae the dark green, cracked leather seat, up at the back ae the tap deck ae the bus. He looked alang the smoky interior, o’er the heids ae the awready sitting, smoking passengers, tae the wee roond mirror at the tap ae the stairs. Some b
ampot wis haudin the rest ae the passengers up, as he raked through his pockets fur the right change. He’d feel better wance the doors swished shut and he wis oan his way towards the river. He wondered if something wis wrang. He’d been staunin, shiting himsel, at the corner ae Gordon Street, being hypnotised by the wee flakes ae snow lazily floating doon oan tae the pavement roond aboot him. The fact that the streets wurnae busy, hid only increased his nervousness. They wur supposed tae hiv picked him up, bang oan eight o’clock, efter he’d drapped aff the wraps ae smack tae Paul Henry, who’d been shuffling aboot nervously at the West Nile Street end ae Drury Lane. Five minutes they said, efter drapping him aff. Whit the fuck wid take them hauf an hour tae drive roond the block? Anyway, a hauf hour waiting, freezing his baws aff, wis mair than enough reason fur him tae take the initiative. It wis his life, no theirs, that he hid tae watch oot fur. The blue flashing ae a cop car or an ambulance, reflecting aff the windaes ae the shoapfronts twenty minutes earlier further up Renfield Street, hidnae helped they shattered nerves ae his. At last, he cursed under his breath, as the sound ae the swooshing ae the doors doonstairs reached him and the back-engine underneath him roared intae life. Settling back in his seat, he glanced doon at the pavement, jist as the tap ae somewan’s heid fleetingly shot past underneath him. He jumped in his seat at the sound ae the doors being thumped fae ootside, before quickly grabbing the back ae the seat in front, as he shot forward when the driver applied the air brakes. His eyes homed in oan the mirror again. He tried tae hear whit the late passenger wis saying tae the driver, bit some auld basturt in a manky bunnet started tae go intae a fit ae coughing two seats in front ae him. He watched the passenger haun o’er his coins before accepting a ticket fae the unseen driver. The guy said something and the driver laughed, as the swooshing ae the doors shut o’er and the engine started up again. He could hear the ticking sound made by the indicator, as the driver waited tae move oot intae the stationary traffic that wis being held up by the lights doon oan the corner ae Argyll Street. He hid a sinking feeling in the pit ae his stomach as he watched the tap ae the heid slowly mounting the stairs.

  “Fuck!” he yelped, jumping up and scrambling fur the handle ae the escape windae behind him, as Snappy Johnston stood at the tap ae the stairs and looked alang the tap deck in his direction.

  “Goat ye, ya prick ye,” Ben McCalumn shouted, as his fist connected wae the chin mid-flight, hurtling him backwards tae crash against the engine ae the still stationary bus.

  He jist managed tae glimpse the two feet exiting fae the front door and a pair ae legs run alang the pavement tae the back ae the bus where he wis lying crumpled and dazed in the road.

  “This is fur you, ya Govan prick, ye,” wis the last thing he heard until he came roond in a hospital bed up at The Royal the next morning, as Snappy Johnston’s heavy leather Oxford brogue boot caught him full in the face.

  Chapter Forty Nine

  Wilma slid intae the vinyl-covered seat, facing the door ae the booth in the Kings Café oan Elmbank Street. She’d jist shouted across tae the handsome-looking waiter that she wis waiting fur somewan, saving him a journey, as he made tae come oot fae behind the coonter tae find oot whit she wanted tae drink. Wance he wis back, ensconced wae that nose ae his in the fitba section ae his Glesga Echo, she looked aboot. She didnae think he recognised her, despite hivving interviewed him when they wur investigating Lesley Bare’s murder by that man ae hers. Her and Collette James regularly used the café tae meet up.

  “Aye, Ah remember the pair ae them,” he’d replied, efter being gied a swatch ae their duplicate polis ID photos that she’d picked up fae the personnel section, alang in Pitt Street. “They used tae come in every other week, so they did. Poliswummin? Ah widnae hiv guessed,” he’d said, sounding surprised. “Murdered? Which wan?” he’d exclaimed, peering at the black and white photo ae Lesley that she’d been haudin up tae his face. “Pity. She wis a bit ae a stoater. Mind you, so wis her pal. Whit became ae her? Don’t tell me she done it?” he’d asked, looking shocked.

  Hid he overheard any ae their conversations, she’d wanted tae know.

  “Me? Ah hear a lot ae things in here, bit don’t lug in tae whit’s being talked aboot by the customers.”

  Hid they ever argued, she’d asked him.

  “Argued? Ah don’t know aboot that, bit there wis certainly a bit ae huffing gaun oan between them…and before ye ask, Ah’ve nae idea whit o’er. The blond thing used tae flirt like mad when Ah arrived across wae their teas or coffee, bit it wis the wee auburn wan that Ah hid the hots fur,” he’d come oot wae, suddenly realising whit he’d said, covering his wedding band wae his other haun.

  Wilma wondered if this wis where Collette James hid haunded o’er Pricilla Presley’s typed statement, aboot whit hid happened tae her and the other WPCs at the hauns ae The Irish Brigade back in the sixties, when they’d met up…oan this very seat maybe.

  “Whit’s wrang, Mammy? His granny upset ye again?” Wee Morag hid asked her, gieing her a cuddle, when she’d goat the weans hame, the same day that she’d gone oot tae visit Collette James at the psyche hospital.

  “Naw, naw, hen. Ah’m greeting because Ah missed you and Sadie so much the day while Ah wis at work,” she’d lied, wiping her eyes and blowing her nose oan the corner ae Sadie’s dirty nappy.

  “So, it’s nothing tae dae wae that then?” the wean hid asked, crinkling up her nose, pointing tae the exposed contents ae the shitey nappy sitting oan the coffee table, as the baith ae them hid burst oot laughing.

  Wee Morag certainly hid a good sense ae humour. Despite that da ae hers being a cheating basturt, she wid’ve goat it fae him. It certainly wisnae fae her side ae the family…no wae a maw like hers. She couldnae believe that nowan fae the force hid taken the trouble tae go oot tae see how Collette wis daeing. She’d raged at Jean aboot it.

  “That’s personnel’s job, so it is. They’re the basturts that ur supposed tae be daeing things like that insteid ae gaun aboot suspending everywan’s arses jist because they’d maybe made a wee mistake or two in the past,” Jean hid come oot wae.

  Wilma hid wanted tae hiv a go at her, bit knew it wid be a waste ae time. And anyway, she hid tae work wae Jean. They wur dependent oan each other, as the wee chib merchants in the toon continued tae stab fuck oot ae each other aw o’er the place, o’er invisible territorial lines known only tae themsels.

  “That carry-oan doon in St Vincent Street where they young guys goat baseball bats taken tae their heids? Not wan member ae the public wis willing tae come forward and identify the basturts that carried oot the attacks, despite hivving witnessed whit happened in front ae their very eyes. It wis the same wae the guy that jumped oot ae the back ae the bus doon in Union Street the same night. If we cannae expect help fae the ordinary man in the street, then whit chance hiv we goat?”

  “It’s fear. Nowan wants tae get involved nooadays.”

  “Aye, bit who’s the first tae get oan the blower if it’s happening tae them, eh?”

  She’d jist sat and listened tae Jean rant. Although the statistics oan the street gang warfare in the toon hid seemingly reached epidemic proportions, Wilma couldnae detect much change. There hid always been fatal stabbings and serious assaults oan a daily basis in the toon, especially oot in the hoosing schemes. Who wid’ve thought that murder wid’ve become so monotonous and routine? People probably didnae realise that wan stab victim, apart fae the location, wis much the same as the next wan.

  “So, whit ur ye gonnae be daeing aboot this persistent wee journalist fae The Glesga Echo then?”

  “Ah’m no sure.”

  “Whit is she efter?”

  “Ah’m no sure.”

  “Hiv ye spoken tae PR doon in Pitt Street?”

  “Tae say whit?”

  “That ye’re being dogged by a journalist who won’t take a telling.”

  “Ah’ve arranged tae meet her…doon at the Kings Café…o’er a cup a coffee. And before ye ask, she’s paying.”


  “Ach well, don’t say Ah never warned ye.”

  She hidnae telt Jean that the journalist, a Pearl Campbell, who’d she’d never heard ae before, hid eventually telt her that she wanted tae discuss the Teddy Bare inquiry.

  “Ah’ve jist started. Ah used tae work fur the maist respected paper in the Highlands before moving back tae Glesga,” she’d said, jist before she’d hung up.

  Wilma hid jist been aboot tae phone her back tae find oot mair aboot whit she wis efter, when she’d goat waylaid by Jean who’d shouted tae her fae across the murder room tae tell her that she wis needed, as there hid been another fatal stabbing ae a young seventeen year auld at the corner ae Maryhill Road and Bilsland Drive a hauf hour earlier.

  She looked up, as a sudden cauld draught and the noise ae traffic assaulted her senses, efter the cafe door swung open and in walked a trendily dressed young lassie wae long red, curly hair.

  “Two large milky coffees, Mario,” she said tae the black waist-coated waiter wae the white shirt, oan the way past.

  Wilma wondered whether tae tell her his name wis Eduardo, Eduardo Morganti, bit decided no tae. There wis far mair important things tae be getting oan wae, like whit the hell wis she wanting tae discuss a murder enquiry that hid awready been investigated and wis noo aw o’er wae, bar the sentencing.

  “Hello, Inspector Thain? Ma name’s Pearl Campbell. We spoke oan the phone the other day there,” The Hack said, putting her packet ae B & H fags and gold Dunhill lighter oan the table, before slipping oot ae her jaicket.

  She wis stunning. Aye, take-yer-breath-away stunning, Wilma noted, awready feeling frumpy in her good C & A jaicket and matching polyester polo neck jumper. It wisnae jist the amazing hair and the splash ae freckles across that wee pert nose ae hers either. Wilma wondered how much the bottle green jaicket hid cost, the wan she’d jist casually tossed in front ae her, as she slid that smart black leather-clad maxi-skirted arse ae hers alang the bench seat, before smiling tae let her know that she wis settled. Wilma wondered where she bought her clothes fae. Journalism must pay mair than she’d ever gied a thought tae.