by Ian Todd
Ian Todd was born in the Townhead district of Glasgow in 1955 and lived there until his family was moved out by the bulldozers in 1969. He lived in Maryhill and Milton, before the family finally settled in Springburn. He moved to the north of Scotland in the early 1980s to go to Aberdeen College of Education and has worked as a Community Development Worker within Youth Work and Adult Learning since then. Ian has a grown-up family and lives with his partner, his five dogs and one cat and has been writing for a number of years.
For Morven, Sarah and Calum
Elvis The Sani Man
By Ian Todd
Elvis The Sani Man is a work of fiction. The names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents in this book are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
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Chapter One
It hid been the sound ae the moth battering its wee flapping wings incessantly aff the underside ae the lampshade that hid brought Collette back tae her current predicament. Chief Inspector Bobby Mack, heid ae wan ae the city’s two murder teams, covering the central, west and north ae the city, and that auld boss ae hers, Detective Sergeant Sally Burke, wur sitting oan the other side ae the freshly cleared desk fae her. Her brain wis in tatters. She hidnae expected tae be questioned so soon, at least, certainly no by this pair. She’d assumed that it wid’ve been the Serious Crime and Intelligence boys. Wae the announcements coming oot ae The High Court in Edinburgh earlier in the day and The Sheriff Court here in the toon in the efternoon regarding The Stalker and that wee service notebook ae his, a scenario wae inspectors and sergeants running fur cover, volunteering tae take oan anything that popped its heid above the crime allocations clerks’ desks in the stations across the north ae the city, hid taken form in that imagination ae hers. Oan the way doon tae Central, she’d caught sight ae a street news vendor putting his early editions ae The Evening Citizen and The Evening Times’s heidline posters intae his wire-framed billboards and leaning them up against the wee brick wall at the corner ae Dundas Street Bus Station and Parly Road. It hid only been a fleeting glance, bit The Evening Citizen’s heidline, in bold black stencil, hid screamed oot tae everywan arriving or being drapped aff by the buses, that a polis inspector and a sergeant hid been arrested in separate dawn raids that very morning. She’d assumed that the inspector wis Paddy McPhee, The Stalker, up there in Springburn, and that big sergeant ae his, Finbar O’Callaghan, or Bumper as everywan knew him as, oan account ae his stoap and arrest technique ae running o’er wee manky toe-rags in the Toonheid back in the 1960s, using wan ae Central Division’s squad cars. Her rising panic didnae stoap her fae wondering whit the reaction wid be when the resident ae the desk they wur huddled roond turned up the morra morning tae find aw his files and personal shite sitting in wee scattered bundles oan the flair roond aboot it. She glanced across at the chief inspector again. He appeared jumpy and his reaction tae the echoing, crashing sound ae the back door ae a Black Maria being slammed shut doon in the courtyard gied her the impression that he wis jist aboot tae shite himsel. Nae wonder, she thought grimly, watching him shuffling his papers, trying tae tease a sheet oot ae the middle ae a file withoot taking mair ae them wae it, insteid ae laying the folder doon oan tap ae the desk and skimming through it until he found whit he wis efter, like a normal person wid’ve done. She’d probably hiv done the same hersel, she admitted. As an experienced bizzy, ye didnae want the suspect oan the other side ae the desk tae see whit leads ye wur sitting wae…at least, no at the start ae that first, initial interrogation. The fact that the file announced that it wis a ‘Personnel File’ and hid her name in bold, thick felt-tipped letters, printed in capitals doon the spine ae it, made his actions seem pretty pointless tae her. Auld habits died hard, she supposed. Seeing as who he wis, she’d still been surprised at his nervousness, given the amount ae high and low profile murder cases he must’ve hid tae deal wae o’er the years, bit then again, he probably hidnae hid tae deal wae a bad smell like her before. Tae her utter shame and regret, she wis well aware ae who the chief inspector wis. Maist ae the young recruits, especially the WPCs, knew or hid heard ae him. His flamboyant, dashing reputation wid’ve gone before him, depending oan the shape ae the chequered hat ye wur issued wae, when ye eagerly first arrived doon in Central tae sign the pledge and take the oath efter successfully passing the six-week entrance and training exam that allowed ye tae call yersel a professional in Glesga’s finest. It wis only when ye wur up close and hid goat tae know him a bit better, that ye uncovered the fault lines, the insecurities…and there wur plenty ae them oan show, if ye knew where tae look. It wis the detective sergeant, sitting there beside him, no saying a word, that held her attention. A right rare auld bird indeed. Collette didnae know whether tae commiserate wae her or wish her good luck, knowing fine well that she risked a moothful ae verbal if she wished The Sarge well in her progression, even if it wis only a sideways move. Everywan hid been talking aboot the two female sergeants being appointed tae the two murder squads. She wanted tae laugh at the hoity-toity cow, sitting there aw high and mighty. Who the hell did she think she wis anyway, eh? If The Sarge even hid a hint ae whit wis aboot tae explode roond aboot they wax-filled ears ae hers, then she wis gonnae need mair than luck tae lift that arse ae hers oot ae the pail ae stagnating shite that wis awaiting her oot in Cornton Vale. Looking across at the three-striper, sitting there stiffly in her grey, masculine, severe trooser suit, a mirror image ae whit the chief inspector wis decked oot in, she swithered whether tae ask her tae explain whit the point wis ae gaun oot and aboot in plain clothes, undercover, if everywan ye wur looking oot fur, spotted that ye wur a detective bizzy fae fifty paces away. Of course, she held her tongue. The daggers the sergeant wis slinging her way made it quite clear that she wisnae sitting there waiting tae accept advice fae anywan, at least no fae the likes ae WPC Collette James. Everywan knew The Sarge hid completed her twenty years plus, efter a string ae inspectors hid aw lined up tae point oot tae the press that during aw that time, Sergeant Sally Burke hid performed exemplary service tae the undeserving citizens ae the muckiest city in the empire efter she’d been cleared by the internal investigation team. Well, Collette hid news fur aw they lying, self-congratulatory basturts, so she hid. She cast her mind back. That last investigation, the wan jist before the agreement between the big boys within the establishment no tae print any shite fae they feminist groups who supported direct action, hid begun as a result ae an anonymous allegation made tae The Glesga Echo fae some underground group ae crackpot wummin who called themsels The Showgirls. These pseudo anarchists hid decided tae step ootside the accepted norm and hid gone aboot exposing whit they called ‘sexual harassment’ by men against wummin in the workplace. Seemingly The Glesga Echo hid been sitting oan the information fur a while, bit hid eventually responded, only efter the whispered rumours circulating in the toon hid become a crescendo. Later oan, when who wis behind the expose hid surfaced, like everywan else, Collette hid jist assumed that they wur aw a bunch ae middle class, man-hating lesbos, who hid nothing better tae dae wae their time than tae go aboot upsetting people. She’d been gied a quick swatch ae the contents ae wan ae their intelligence files wance, when she’d been asked tae deliver some sealed files tae the Serious Crime and Intelligence section oan the third flair, doon in Pitt Street, by her best pal, Lesley, who Collette hid completed her training wae. Although she wisnae supposed tae, Lesley hid gied her the gra
nd tour ae the inner sanctum, or The Cove as everywan called it, explaining how the index card system worked in relation tae where the files wur located. It aw seemed really complicated, despite Lesley’s assurance that it wis really straightforward, wance ye goat the hang ae it. She remembered that there hid been aboot fifty or sixty-odd files wae the names ae aw the different wummin’s protest groups, maistly associated or affiliated tae the trade unions, who actively protested aboot wan thing or another in the toon. She remembered being taken by surprise when she’d come across a warrant sale file. It hid been because ae warrant sales that she’d first contemplated resigning fae the force. Within five minutes ae her arrival up in Possilpark, she’d been assigned the responsibility ae covering aw the closemooth demos in the area, which occurred wance or twice every other week. The first wan hid been oan her second day alang in Allander Street. When she’d arrived oan the scene, a couple ae troublemakers fae across in Springburn hid hid the local wummin frothing at the mooth, waving their placards above their heids and shouting abuse at anywan who looked as if they wur fae the establishment. She hidnae been too sure whit she wis supposed tae dae. She’d been telt tae protect the Sheriff officers and potential buyers when they arrived tae conduct the sale. When the wummin, especially the Springburn wans, hid spotted who’d been sent up fae the polis station, they’d aw burst oot laughing. It hidnae goat any better when she’d introduced hersel tae them.
“Look, hen, there’s nae need fur ye tae dae that. You jist go and staun o’er there oan yer lonesome and we’ll staun oot here oan the pavement, okay?” wan ae the local wummin hid advised her, pointing tae the wee step leading in tae the entrance ae the damp, manky closemooth.
“Ah’ve never done this before,” she’d admitted.
“Really?” a few ae them hid exclaimed, eyebrows lifted, smiling, exaggerating their surprise, as the rest ae them hid stood there guffawing at her.
“Aye, so wid ye mind explaining the routine?’ she’d asked.
And that hid been that. Efter taking the time tae persuade them that she wisnae taking the piss oot ae them, they’d sort ae taken her under their wing. Aye, the confrontations hid been loud and the jostling ae the Sheriff officers and buyers turning up, hoping tae snatch a bargain due tae somewan’s unpaid debt, hid continued, bit oan the whole, nowan, since she’d been assigned the task, hid been assaulted or arrested. She hidnae known that she’d set some sort ae city-wide record until she’d been informed that she’d been gied a commendation certificate fae Jack Tipple, the assistant chief constable himsel, fur being the first pavement pounder tae achieve the distinction ae her Sheriff officers no being assaulted o’er a three month period between April and June. Efter jist two months intae her assignment, wan ae the younger lassies hid even asked her if she’d be wan ae her new-born triplets’ Godmother. When she’d politely refused, Big Hettie Mulligan, the leader ae the wummin, hid persuaded her tae accept.
“Believe you me, Collette, hen, ye should feel honoured, you being a scrawny wee bizzy and aw that,” Big Hettie hid chided her, as the rest ae the wummin hid aw nodded.
Of course, when Duggie Dougan, her inspector, hid found oot efter clocking her smiling coupon, wae a set ae triplets clutched in her erms, in the photo that hid appeared in The Evening Citizen the following night, he’d gone aff his trolley at her in front ae everywan in the canteen. It hid been her best pal Lesley that hid persuaded her no tae resign and noo, the rest wis aboot tae become history.
“Warrant sales? Ah didnae know they wur classed as political,” she’d exclaimed tae Lesley in surprise, oan that first and only visit tae the intelligence section cove.
“They’re no. We only keep tabs oan who’s leading them doon at the closemooths, jist in case there’s any politicos in there stirring up the local natives fur their ain ends, so we dae,” Lesley hid informed her.
While maist ae whit Lesley hid called ‘the fringe’ group files wur lucky if they wur a few pages thick, The Showgirls hid three big volumes, each aboot two or three inches thick, sitting in their ain wee boxed cubicle.
“Why hiv Ah no heard aboot them before noo?” she’d wondered.
“The tactic being used is tae starve the stupid bitches ae oxygen.”
“Oxygen?”
“Aye, think ae whit happens tae a chip pan that’s oan fire oan tap ae yer cooker when ye throw a damp dishtowel o’er the tap ae the flames.”
“Aye, and?”
“It bloody extinguishes the flames due tae a lack ae oxygen, so it dis, ya effing diddy, ye,” Lesley hid shouted at her, looking at her as if she wis some sort ae thicko or something.
“Oh, right. Ah never knew that,” she’d confessed and the baith ae them hid laughed.
“Anyway, aw the newspapers and the T.V. newsroom people in the toon hiv agreed no tae publicise any ae their shite, so they hiv, apart fae when it involves some high profile politician, or any other clatty, celebrity basturt that the public needs titillated by…in the interests ae freedom ae the press, of course,” Lesley hid reminded her, allowing Collette tae read a threatening letter The Showgirls hid sent tae some owner ae a carpet shoap, Carpets Fur Cash, alang in Queen Street. “Kin ye imagine aw they T.V. producers and newspaper editors being targeted by these mad hairys? Nae wonder they aw swiftly agreed oan the ban,” Lesley hid scoffed.
In the letter, The Showgirls hid warned the owner ae the carpet shoap, who they wur accusing ae being a filthy groper, that if they received wan mair complaint aboot him fae any ae his female staff, then they’d be sending their evidence and a copy ae the statements fae his victims, no only tae the press, bit tae that wife ae his, who seemingly worked right under his nose in the shoap, bit who apparently wisnae aware ae whit day it wis, let alone whit the hell wis gaun oan right under that beak ae hers. They’d also telt him they’d paste aw his ‘dirty misdeeds’ up oan the walls surrounding his shoap front, tae alert aw his female customers as tae the mucky basturt he clearly wis. As Lesley said at the time, how wis he tae know that the press widnae hiv printed the stuff? She remembered that the letter hid a striking logo across the tap ae it.
“Aye, a right bunch ae fascist frauleins,” Lesley hid growled.
“Frauleins? Whit’s German wummin goat tae dae wae anything then?”
“Look at them. Nothing bit a goose-stepping bunch ae Jerries. And they’ve goat a bloody cheek tae call us fascist fuck-pig basturts,” Lesley hid cursed, obviously affronted, though Collette couldnae contain hersel and hid burst oot laughing.
“Whit?”
The logo showed a row ae aboot a dozen, tall, blonde, Tiller Girls in black tights, staunin erm in erm in sparkling leotards, daeing their ‘tap and kick’ routine wae their long, high-heeled legs, the faces ae the lassies under the fashionable sixties, Helen Shapiro hairstyle bobs, hivving been replaced wae grinning, grimacing skulls.
“Naw!”
“Ah’m telling ye, Lesley. That’s the famous Tiller Girls, so it is. Kin ye no remember them? They wur never aff ae Sunday Night at The London Palladium, so they wurnae, aw through the fifties and sixties. When Ah wis at primary school, Ah always wanted tae be wan ae them if Ah wisnae accepted in tae the force when Ah grew up.”
“Christ, wait until Ah tell that chief inspector ae mine, Mickey Sherlock. He’ll go aff his baldy heid, so he will,” Lesley hid coughed, laughing. “He’s hid everywan scouring through aw the auld Loyalist Blackshirt files fae the thirties fur the past two months tae see if there’s any descendent connections, so he his.”
“Blackshirts?”
“Listen, ye don’t want tae go there, believe you me. Anyway, ye don’t think they’re involved in aw this carry-oan, dae ye?”
“Who?”
“The bloody Tiller Girls!” Lesley hid shouted at her, as the baith ae them hid cracked up again. “Honest tae God, Collette. Whit ur ye like?”
Despite the supposed ban by the T.V. and newspaper companies, The Showgirls’ name did pop up every noo and again, especially where they’d over-dubbed
advertisement billboards wae damning, embarrassing, blown-up grainy photos ae male managers attempting tae avoid hivving their photos taken, their names and job titles spray-painted opposite hospitals and factories, demanding some manager or consultant be sacked fur being a sick sexual-harassing pervert. Lesley hid telt her that wan ae the newly retired desk sergeants fae the Calton hid been employed specially tae cycle aboot the city at night oan a pushbike, carrying a stepladder oan his shoulder, wae a paste bucket swinging aff the end ae it, replacing the tampered billboard adverts as soon as the local pavement pounders spotted that they’d been vandalised. Seemingly, there hid been over forty-five applicants fur the job, nine ae them being retired inspectors.
“Christ, how the mighty hiv fallen, eh?” she remembered saying tae Lesley.
“Eh?”
“Nothing,” she’d replied.
The Showgirls wur never mentioned in Central or up in Possil where she’d been based since March, earlier in the year. The wan and only time she’d wondered oot loud in the canteen, efter her meeting wae Lesley, aboot who the leaders ae the group could be, the withering, disapproving looks she’d received fae The Gruesome Twosome polis sergeants, in the form ae Dave McGovern and Shane Priestly and Duggie Dougan, the local inspector, who’d been sitting nearby, hid soon put a stoap tae her verbal, vocal curiosity. She turned her thoughts back tae the grey-suited poliswummin sitting across fae her. The investigation involving The Sarge and that horrible brother ae hers hid been in regard tae a sexual assault allegation by wan ae the traffic WPCs fae Central against a sergeant across in the Gorbals, the morning efter a right auld booze-up hid taken place in the polis social club, at two in the morning during a lock-in. Nowan, at least none ae the WPCs that she’d engaged in whispered conversations wae and who’d been aroond at the time, hid been that surprised tae learn that efter an internal investigation, the two sergeants at the centre ae the investigation hid been cleared ae any professional misconduct. Misconduct? That’s whit they’d called an assault oan a twenty-year auld drunk lassie that hid resulted in her underwear being ripped in a toilet and her left wae a black eye. It hid been Sergeant Sally Burke that hid introduced her sergeant brother, Willie Burke, who’d been stationed across in the south side, tae the WPC earlier in the evening. The lassie, Susan McFarlane, hidnae returned tae work efter being sexually assaulted and the brother hid eventually been transferred oot ae the Gorbals tae Penilee wance the dust hid settled. That hid been jist o’er two and a hauf years earlier, no long efter Collette hid signed oan the dotted line and pledged tae uphold the law. Although she hidnae known Susan McFarlane, the assaulted WPC, tae speak tae at the time, it wis Susan that hid been the catalyst fur Collette tae be sitting where she wis noo. She peered closely at her auld boss. It certainly hidnae been the first time she’d wondered how auld The Sarge wis. It hid always been a topic ae whispered conversation amongst the other lassies. Despite the heavy touch oan the make-up front, she looked auld…haggard even. It wis a lived-in kind ae face that looked as if it hid been through the mill and back…which it probably hid. Somewan hid telt her recently that The Sarge wis still only in her late thirties, although fae where Collette wis sitting, she found that hard tae believe. She took the opportunity ae a lull in the proceedings tae hiv a wee look aboot, as the chief inspector continued tae look fur whit he wis searching fur. It seemed like hours ago, bit wis in fact only a couple ae minutes, since they’d aw sat doon in wan ae the stuffy windaeless interview rooms oan the ground flair and the lights hid suddenly gone oot.