by Ian Todd
Collette hid asked him if he’d wanted her tae hing oan, bit he hidnae known how long him and wan ae his boys, Jack Hawke, wid be up in the wards, talking wae and trying tae get a statement fae the poisoned patients that hid been kept in. And anyway, she’d made it clear that she wis worried aboot being spotted hinging aboot wae him, seeing as she wis still suspended. She’d arranged a meeting between them and a black meat informant across in Cadder, whose man hid seemingly goat crucified oan an auld panelled door back in the late sixties by The Simpson Clan fae Possil and who’d probably be sitting there shiting hersel if Collette didnae turn up at the agreed time. He opened up the tap folder. The first thing he came across wis the haunwritten menu fur the engagement bash that The Stalker’s pavement pounders hid lifted oot ae the hoose ae the boss ae the catering company who’d supplied the grub fur the bash the night before. It wis a mix ae yer traditional Glesga engagement party fare, gaun back generations, bit wae wee additional tasty ‘posh’ ditties slung in tae impress the culinary uneducated. Potted haugh sandwiches, made fae the boiled bones ae cattle tae make up the gelatine tae haud the boiled, seasoned, shredded meat thegither. Bloody disgusting. He’d stoapped eating meat when he wis aboot eleven or twelve efter that dotty auld granny ae his hid served potted haugh up tae him oan tap ae a slice ae breid. He remembered sitting wae bated breathe, as she took her time, her haun held aloft in the sun that wis belting through her kitchen windae, loudly surmising whether the wee thing she’d picked oot ae the middle ae his sandwich wis either an eyelash fae the actual coo itsel or aff ae the hee-haws ae that auld smelly spaniel dug ae hers that goat fed the same as everywan else in the hoose. Next oan the menu hid been chicken and mushroom vol-au-vents tae compliment the expected hedgehog bases scattered aboot the tables wae the usual Red Leicester cheese and pineapple chunks stuck oan tae it wae toothpicks. The international element, meant tae impress, wis the scooped-oot hard boiled eggs wae finely chopped leek mixed in wae mayonnaise, sprinkled wae curry powder oan tap, sitting oan a bed ae shredded lettuce leaves and exotically called ‘Devilled eggs.’ He wondered if those attending the bash hid ever come across a lettuce leaf, let alone tasted wan. Another expected classic wis yer digestive biscuits, tapped aff wae Primula saft cheese squeezed oot ae the tube and forming a circle oan the ootside ae the biscuit wae the middle filled up wae diced chopped pork and finely sliced pickled onion. Elvis could tell whoever hid put thegither and served up this menu hid pushed the boat oot. Apart fae the digestive biscuits being McVities, there wur three different flavours ae Primula saft cheese in there. As well as aw this, there wis the usual cocktail sausages, cheese and ham sandwiches and wee homemade sausage rolls…a possible suspect in the poisoning. The only thing that wis puzzling him at this point in the proceedings wis the absence ae the mince pies fae the menu. Aw the guests interviewed so far hid spoken aboot scoffing delicious hot mince pies. Luckily fur the forensics, another wan ae his boys, Norrie Johnston, hid went fur a wee recce under the tables where the guests hid been sitting making merry. His search hidnae been in vain as he’d come across a practically full pie, alang wae a wee mini molehill ae chewed minced morsel, that hid obviously been spat oot oan tae the wooden flair. Peter the Perfectionist, wan ae the forensic biologists, hid telt him oan the phone that there hid been the perfect shape ae somewan’s teeth imprinted oan the pie efter they’d taken a good-sized bite oot ae it, before discarding it under where he or she hid been sitting.
“Aye, there wis somewan wae normal taste buds,” he’d drawled in that sarcastic, tone ae voice ae his tae Elvis. “Probably the only non-smoker in the room, Ah’d bet.”
The initial interim lab report, put thegither by Peter the Perfectionist and his team, concluded that the mincemeat wis no only horsemeat, bit wis bloody rancid intae the bargain. At this early stage ae the investigation, if pushed, Elvis wid put his money oan the pies or sausage rolls being responsible fur the poisoning, although there wis still a good bit tae go before the extent ae the outbreak and whit hid caused it could be confirmed. Wance somewan covered o’er the tap ae a pie wae a wee bit ae pastry, then it could be anything lurking aboot inside it, waiting fur its next unsuspecting victim.
Also in the broon folder that Happy Harry, apparently the longest serving desk sergeant in the toon, hid handed o’er tae him oan route tae the cell suite wis a sheath ae papers containing the polis records ae aw the staff ae a newly set up local catering company called ‘Springburn’s Larder.’ He could barely conceal his excitement. It looked as if he’d struck gold at last. Okay, it wisnae a Possilpark business, bit it wis as damn near it as wis possible. Take the Cowlairs fitba pitches oot ae the frame and they wur wan and the same, as far as he wis concerned. He quickly raced through the previous conviction record sheets ae the suspects before returning tae the beginning. He’d hit the jackpot. This wis the real deal, so it wis. Up until three years earlier, when the previous leader ae this crowd hid suddenly died, they hidnae supped much porridge. He looked at the black and white mugshot ae the replacement leader ae the catering wummin, who wur aw presently occupying the row ae cells across fae the room he wis noo encamped in. She looked a right hard basturt tae, wae the black roots showing through that peroxide blonde hair ae hers and a scowling look that wid’ve cracked a plate glass windae. Sharon Campbell, a mother ae two, aged forty-seven, hid been born up a closemooth in wan ae the worst acknowledged slums in Western Europe, a tenement oan Parson Street, Toonheid, oan the fourth ae August nineteen twenty-eight. According tae her file, she’d never worked in her life, apart fae an eighteen-month stint as a school cleaner in the mid-sixties at The City Public Senior Secondary School doon oan St James Road. In the past three years alone, she’d been arrested and sent tae prison a total ae nine times fur assaulting the polis and Sheriff officers gaun aboot their business ae implementing warrant sales. The length ae sentences hid ranged fae seven days tae three months. Her first real serious charge hid been ten years earlier, back in 1965, fur mobbing and rioting in John Street, where a number ae polis officers hid been seriously assaulted. She’d only recently been released fae HMP Cornton Vale earlier in the year, fur breach ae the peace and assaulting a polisman at a closemooth in Vulcan Street. He quickly looked at the sheets ae the other arrested suspects. Betty Smith, aged forty-seven, Issie McManus, aged forty-six, Ann Jackson, aged forty-six, Sally McNair, who also went by the name ae Soiled Sally he noted, aged forty-seven. Aw the wummin shared the same conviction rate and criminal path as Sharon Campbell. Aw hid been regularly charged wae breach ae the peace and assaults oan polis and Sheriff officers, although curiously, since Campbell and Shand hid been released fae Cornton Vale in June, none ae the wummin hid been arrested. Looking back o’er the previous conviction sheets, this wis probably the longest period that any ae the wummin hid ever gone withoot being arrested and charged wae some form ae public disorder. He slid his chair back and stood up. He looked aboot the stuffy room. It smelled ae stale pish. He hoped the wummin widnae think that it came fae him. He walked across and popped his heid through the door. The turnkey hid finished his pie and wis sitting there smacking they chops ae his in obvious pleasure.
“Kin ye bring the first wan…Campbell…in, minding tae tell her tae watch that foreheid ae hers as she enters the room?”
Chapter Forty Three
The inspector looked aboot his office. It wis as tidy as it wis gonnae get under the circumstances. He’d wanted tae use wan ae the bigger interview rooms, bit there hid been a spate ae hoosebreakings and shoaps getting tanned in the area o’er the past twenty-four hours and the boys wur rounding up the wee manky basturts that wur adding tae his grief. Oan tap ae that, hauf the wee Neds doon oan Saracen Street wur wandering aboot like zombies, aw aff their heids, oan a strong batch ae Paki-Black hash that hid swamped the area. Some basturt or basturts wur clearly raking it in, bit it certainly wisnae him. He looked at the clock above the door as he lit up a B & H. Daddy Fuck-pig Jackson, alang wae that wee poisoned dwarf ae a prick, Billy Liar, wur heidin h
is way fae Central as he sat contemplating how tae explain the overdose ae crime oan the patch. Two fatal stabbings in the space ae a week, still unsolved, and a plague ae domestic violence, erupting like Mount Vesuvius, tipped his good statistic record aff kilter. Surely that widnae hiv caused Daddy tae get up aff ae that arse ae his tae pay him a visit?
“Jist a wee catch up,” the sick basturt hid cooed doon the line tae him.
He’d wanted tae tell Daddy that he wis too busy and no well in tae the bargain, bit whit wis the point? The best thing wid’ve been fur the front desk tae tell Daddy he wisnae in, bit they wurnae tae know who’d been oan the end ae the line until it wis too late. He’d tried tae open the windae tae let the smell ae that arse ae his oot, bit it widnae budge. Oan tap ae that, a giant bluebottle hid been dive-bombing him fur the better part ae an hour. It wid land oan his desk, jist oot ae reach, before daeing a wee tap dance, encouraging him tae come and hiv a go. He’d tried the flat ae his haun, then a rolled up crime statistic sheet tae scud it, bit every time he goat anywhere near the wee basturt, it took flight. At first he’d gied up, deliberately ignoring the challenge, bit it kept coming back fur mair. It wis noo sitting there, quite still, apart fae gieing its two front legs a wee rub thegither, eyeballing him. He casually shifted forward in his seat, staunin up. He held his breath, as he turned, loosening the belt buckle oan his troosers. Not a flicker. He slowly eased his troosers doon wae a thumb oan either hip, feeling the coolness ae the office oan they exposed hairy cheeks ae his. He listened fur any footsteps oot in the hallway. Nothing. He slowly moved forward in reverse, keeping his back tae the blue beastie, surreptitiously gieing it a wee glance tae make sure it wis still there. He stoapped and held his breath. Its front legs hid stoapped rubbing each other. He stood stock still, while still listening fur movement oot in the corridor. He slowly let oot his breath. The legs wur back tae gieing each other a good rub. He quietly inhaled a deep breath. Haudin it in, while squeezing the muscles ae his stomach at the same time as allowing the cheeks ae that arse ae his tae open naturally. He coonted tae three slowly, before letting rip. It hidnae been as loud as he’d been expecting, given the amount ae churning that hid been gaun oan in they guts ae his. It wis mair a watery, slabbery crescendo, bit it hid done the trick as the bluebottle wis blasted aff ae that desk ae his at a hunner-odd miles an hour. Before it could recover, he wis roond and oan tae it, splatting it wae the sole ae his size eleven, jist as it wis aboot tae take flight.
“Take that ya filthy, mockit, basturt, ye,” The Inspector shouted in exultation. “Aw fur fuck’s sake!” he howled, lifting up the sole ae his right boot tae hiv a wee swatch, as the palm ae his left haun slid through the splatter ae watery shite that hid skited across the tap ae his desk, nearly toppling him o’er oan tae that rancid arse ae his.
Chapter Forty Four
Collette stood oan the wee Cadder Bridge, swishing her hauns back and forward in front ae her stinging eyes, trying no tae cough her lungs up, as the wee coal-fired, puffing boat emerged fae underneath her. She’d left it too late tae make a dash fur it, so hid stood where she wis, no thinking that it wid be as bad as it actually wis. She looked aboot. She wis glad she wis in her civvy gear. There wis nae sign ae Jean Harris, wan ae the Possil wummin she’d arranged tae meet up wae.
“Aye, bit no here in Possil,” Jean hid pressed her, making it clear that the get-thegither hid tae be somewhere else that she felt comfortable wae.
“Where then?”
“Ah don’t know, er, how aboot up in Cadder?”
“Cadder?” Collette hid asked, up the back, beside the dug food section in the Co-op oan Saracen Street, two days earlier.
“Sshhh! Christ, Collette, ye’ll get me bloody-well hung, so ye will,” Jean hid hissed, fearfully. “That’s Willie Commotion’s other hauf doon by the till, so it is. If she’s heard ye, then Ah’d be as well tae go up that road and top masel, so Ah wid.”
“Ach, she’d need tae hiv ears like an elephant tae pick up whit we’re talking aboot back here, Jean,” she’d soothed tae the nervous crater, staunin looking aboot the aisles, the scar oan the left side ae her face throbbing, wae fear written aw o’er her complexion.
“Don’t you believe it. This is Possil, remember? Aw the walls hiv eyes and ears aboot here, so they dae.”
“Ye wur saying, Cadder?”
“Aye, Ah’ve goat a pal who’s jist miraculously managed tae get hersel a hoose up there, the lucky so-and-so. Anyhow. Ah’ll meet ye up there oan Friday morning at eleven o’clock, so Ah will.”
“Whereaboots?”
“Ah’ve jist telt ye.”
“Naw, Ah mean, whereaboots in Cadder?”
“Oh, right. Dae ye know where the wee bridge is, up by the canal?”
“Naw, bit Ah’ll find it.”
“Right, well, don’t be late and remember tae bring some fags wae ye.”
Collette looked at her watch again. She’d been staunin oan the bridge oan her lonesome fur thirty-five minutes, watching people coming and gaun wae their dugs or weans in tow, some in prams, either crossing where she wis or strolling alang the leafy embankment beside the Forth and Clyde Canal, some stoapping every noo and again tae feed the ducks. She’d furgotten how beautiful some ae the wee oases wur that wur scattered across the north ae the city, especially oan a day like this, wae the sun shining doon oan everywan. Jean obviously believed Cadder wis a wee paradise and that her pal, whoever she wis, who’d managed tae get a Corporation hoose wis lucky. Collette supposed that, compared tae Possil, Cadder could be viewed as a right wee oasis. The crime stats that she’d read suggested otherwise, as gang warfare oan the streets at night wis a regular occurrence fur the local residents, so bumped them up. She wondered again if Jean wis gonnae turn up. Jean Harris wis a thirty-five-year-auld single mother ae two weans and lived in Stoneyhurst Street in Possilpark. Life hidnae been too kind tae Jean or they weans ae hers. The weans’ faither and Jean’s man, Hawkeye Campbell, hid been found nailed tae a door, crucified, up in Possil Loch at the tail end ae the 60s. Nowan hid ever been charged wae the murder, although everywan hid assumed that it hid been the work ae Tam and Toby Simpson, the local heavyweight gangsters who’d ruled the roost at the time. No long efter Hawkeye hid enhanced Glesga’s sick reputation fur violence abroad even mair, Jean’s weans hid been taken fae her by social work efter she’d hid a nervous breakdoon. Withoot her weans tae keep her focussed and grounded, Jean hid nosedived fae the tap board intae the seedy world ae alcohol, drugs and prostitution, eventually ending up wandering aboot the dark, cobbled lanes ae Blythswood in the city centre, at the mercy ae the punters and the other, mair hardened ladies ae the night. Collette hid come across her oan a bitterly cauld night in Bishop Lane, doon oan Waterloo Street. It hid been so cauld that night, that her and her sergeant, Sally Burke, hid agreed that they’d spend nae mair than twenty minutes at any wan time oot oan the street, withoot getting back in tae the back ae the Black Maria fur a warm cup ae tea fae the flasks, before venturing oot again. Her and the sergeant hid jist confronted some weird-looking guy who’d been acting suspiciously, heiding alang West George Street in the direction ae the Kingston flyover. When they’d confronted him, he’d started screaming at them, threatening tae sue them fur wrongful arrest and harassment, even though they’d jist asked him where the blood oan they hauns ae his hid come fae. Even mair alarming at the time hid been that he’d hid nae identification oan him and hid refused tae answer questions aboot where his car wis parked up.
“Whit car?”
“The car belonging tae these,” Sergeant Burke hid replied, his car keys sitting in her upturned palm.
Wance the Black Maria hid turned up tae take the suspect doon tae Central oan suspicion ae hivving committed a crime, Collette and The Sarge hid agreed tae split up and go in search ae a victim. They’d known they’d hiv tae be quick due tae the freezing temperature. If there wis some poor soul lying injured somewhere oan the freezing cobbles ae a lane, then the chances ae their survi
val, if he or she wur injured, wid be negligible. They also hid tae find the victim fast because the desk sergeant oan the desk in Central widnae keep somewan locked up fur long withoot knowing why. Turning up wae blood oan yer hauns in a place like Glesga oan a Friday night, certainly wisnae a crime, so it wisnae. The Sarge hid cut up towards Blythswood Square, while she’d heided southwards in the direction ae Argyle Street, ignoring the cars slowing doon every couple ae minutes tae a crawl wae the drivers shouting across tae her wanting tae know is she wis looking fur business. Efter zigzagging up and doon the dark lanes, she’d ended up at the corner ae West Campbell Street and Waterloo Street. She’d stood, taking stock, swithering o’er which direction tae take. A group ae young female Christian students hid been staunin oan the opposite corner fae her, waving their ‘We’re Aw Sinners. Come back Tae God, Aw Is Furgiven’ placards and singing Barclay James Harvest’s song ‘Hymn’ in perfect harmony. She’d decided against heiding towards Hope Street. It wid be too noisy, wae the traffic and the drunken revellers, tae hear any response tae her calling intae the dark cobbled lanes oan route, asking if anywan wis needing help. She’d awready upset mair than a few ae the street walkers and their punters by freaking the men oot by her walking up tae them, shining a torch in their faces and enquiring if they’d heard any female screams, especially wae her radio crackling away quietly under that flimsy jaicket ae hers. She smiled, remembering wan guy asking if she’d hing oan fur a minute or two until he finished, before continuing tae negotiate the price ae a blowjob. The street lassie he wis wae, Juliet Ann Fisher, a nice junkie lassie, and the mother ae three under-fives fae Bearsden, hid gied him such a slap, that it hid ricocheted up and doon the lane, sounding uncannily like the whiplash crack fae the start ae the Gunsmoke TV series that hid been daeing the rounds oan the TV again. Wae the angelic ‘If ye want tae see God, ye’ve goat tae move oan the other side’ lyrics emanating oot ae the young Christian wummin ringing in her ears, she’d quickly heided in the direction ae the lower end ae Pitt Street, no being able tae feel they feet ae hers in her high heels and micro miniskirt. She remembered stoapping and listening. It hid been difficult tae hear anything due tae the constant thrum ae the cars and buses rumbling up Hope Street and the distant harmony ae the singers, although it hid goat easier the mair she walked away fae the traffic noise behind her. She’d quickened her pace, ignoring the drivers in the cars slowing doon beside her, haudin up their fivers and tenners and waving them in her direction. She’d stoapped again, this time convinced that she could hear wailing, bit wae nae idea where the hell it wis coming fae. She’d started running as best she could, trying no tae go o’er oan her ankles, quickly looking up and doon the streets as she passed them, still taking the time tae scurry across tae the opening ae the dark lanes tae shout in, asking if anywan needed help. Wance back oan Waterloo Street, she’d heard the wailing again. It sounded as if it wis in some sort ae tunnel or something. She’d crossed the road, still running, as best she could, in the direction ae the sound. When she’d reached the opening ae Bishops Lane, it hid been in pitch-darkness.