Bitter Water (19 page)

‘Sophia took your phone call the other day. Sophia, why you no’ get Mr Brodie and me a nice cup of coffee. Brodie, come, sit, tell me some good news.’

‘Aldo, the good news is we’re both still here and you have a fine daughter.’

‘So right, my friend, so right. And we have our freedom, and Hitler and that strutting Roman
maiale
– pig – are both dead.’ He spat figuratively on his newly mopped floor.

A thought struck me. ‘Freedom? Aldo, were you . . .’

He sighed. ‘Interned? Shut away from my family and friends? Yes, Brodie. I had a little holiday on the Isle of Man. And before that, the locals here smashed all the windows. A little taste of Fascism. Or maybe they no’ like my black pudding suppers. It was . . . how you say, educational.’

‘I’m sorry, Aldo. It was . . .’

‘Wheesht. It is done. Forgotten. Now, you wanted to talk ’bout this vigilante thing? OK, but before we get into all that, tell me what you’ve been up to.’

I told him, though I didn’t tell him that the last Italians I’d encountered had been shooting at me. I gave him my potted war story, filling it with enough anecdote to make it sound like a great adventure. One I wouldn’t have missed for anything. Truth to tell, I wouldn’t. No one admits to having
enjoyed
the war, but there were moments – rare enough for sure – when I felt shot through with a kind of exaltation. When all the training kicked in and all the hard-won experience could be drawn down. When attacking a fortified enemy position seemed the most natural thing in the world and that no bullet had my name on it. I didn’t say much about the bulk of my time broiling in the desert sun or freezing in a French bog, waiting for the off, sometimes bored, usually terrified.

When I explained about my new job, he leaned in.

‘Yes! I saw you in all the papers back in April.’ He pointed to the big pile of newsprint on his counter ready to receive his miraculous fish suppers and tattie fritters and soak away the hot dripping and vinegar. ‘I no’ realise then it was my Brodie! Now you write in the
Gazette
. You are famous, no?’

‘Infamous, possibly. But I’d like to get better known for my writing. I’d like to get a name as a reporter. Not for
being
the story. The one I’m working on now is—’

‘Ha! Your message is about these men who are. . .
prendendo la legge nelle loro proprie mani.
How do you say?’

‘Taking the law into their own hands? It’s getting worse, Aldo. I still don’t know who they are, but I’ve found out how they chose their victims.’

‘Oh, but that is how I can help. You called the right man, my friend. It’s no’ true.’

‘What do you mean, it’s not true? They’ve been watching the court results and attacking anyone who gets off.’

‘Then maybe they found a new way.’

‘You what?’

Aldo was a great dramatist. He took his time lighting a cigarette and thanking his blushing
bella
Sophia for the coffee and taking a sip.

‘
Si. La scrittura è sulla parete
.’ He pretended to wield a pen in the air.

‘The writing is on the wall? What the hell does that mean, Aldo?’

‘It does not
mean
anything. It is a statement of fact. Look across the road. The bomb site. Can you see the chalk on the wall of the building?’

I stood and peered over the curtain. A huge gap had been torn in a row of tenements by a bomb. There were words scrawled on the dark wallpaper of the former sitting room. It was too far away to make out. ‘What does it say?’

‘It is an invitation. It was put up a few days ago. They want people to contact them if they know someone is bad. If they have done a bad thing and need punishing.’

‘Christ! I’ll be right back.’

I ran over the road and read it for myself. I wrote it down in my notepad.

It sounded like an advert for a removal company. Which in a sense they were, I suppose. I looked across the road at the Café Ritz. Aldo was peering through the window with a big smile on his face. He shrugged. I went back over the road and we sat down again. This time he laid two envelopes in front of me. I gazed at them, then at Aldo, stupefied at the range of possibilities.

‘Aldo, please tell me it’s not you.’ For a daft moment I thought he’d been harbouring ill feelings against us for being interned.

‘No, no, no. I am not a violent man. I am only the temporary post office.’

‘What?’

‘That’s what they say to me.’

‘Who?’

‘The two men who came in. They asked me to collect their envelopes and give them to them when they come by.’

‘Did they explain what they were up to?’

‘
Si, si
. It’s OK. In Napoli, this is familiar. The Cosa Nostra looked after such things.’

‘Are they paying you?’

‘A little. For my trouble. One shilling for one envelope. These two came in yesterday.’ He touched the envelopes. ‘So I called you.’

‘Can you describe the men?’

Aldo sucked his teeth and played with his moustache. ‘It’s not easy. They wear caps pulled down. And scarves pulled up. I don’t try to see better. Sometimes it is good not to see too much.’

I was scribbling it all down. ‘Height, accent? Were they local?’

‘The leader one was tall, like you, Brodie. But skinny. His friend was not so big. They were hard men, I thought. Like Mafiosi in Napoli. They were men with
uno scopo, un obiettivo
.’

‘A purpose. A goal?’

He nodded.

‘What did they sound like? Were they local men?

Aldo shook his head. ‘No. I can tell. I have heard others talk this way. We have all accents round here. One is Irish. The other is from the north.’

‘Highlands?’

‘
Si
. I think so.’

‘When will they come to collect these?’

He shrugged. ‘Sometime. Soon. They did not say exactly. They say they are watching.’

‘Can I open them?’ I picked the scruffy envelopes up and eased back the gummed edges.

The first note was in a good hand but bad English:

I tried not to laugh. As a summary of everything that was wrong in Britain today, it was hard to beat.

The second was no laughing matter:

I folded the notes and put them back in the envelopes. What should I do? Confiscate them and stop two punishments? Leave them with Aldo and let things unfold – because who was I to interfere? Should I hang around for the next few days to try to catch this pair in the act? And then what? Confront them and get a knife for my troubles? Phone Duncan Todd and line up a police squad to nab them? I reminded myself I was still trying to stay on the outside of events, observing not participating. It didn’t come naturally. I just needed practice. It would make a good story but the last thing I wanted was to bring retribution down on Aldo either from the cops or the vigilantes.

As if reading my thoughts, Aldo asked, ‘I hope this is no trouble for me?’

That made my mind up. This was going in the paper but with all details of place and names omitted. It was a reporter’s privilege, was it not, to claim source confidentiality? Or was that something from a movie with Cary Grant?

‘Aldo, I won’t say where I got this information and I won’t try to interfere with these guys who want you to be a post office. OK?’

He breathed out. ‘OK. I trust you, Brodie. Will this make you famous?’

‘Fame? I’m all for the quiet life, Aldo. I just want to keep my job.’ I smiled. ‘This helps. Thank you, Aldo.’

TWENTY-FOUR

I
had to admit, Ishmael and his gang had moved fast. I’d no sooner exposed his modus operandi for victim selection using the court reports than he’d added a whole new dimension to the game. He’d clearly decided the city was full of sinners who’d been getting away with it for too long, and was determined that his brand of Old Testament justice should catch them up.

I also needed to stop thinking about
him
. As in one man. I was more and more certain that Ishmael had put together a team of like-minded souls. A posse, I suppose. His punishment rate seemed to be creeping up week by week. I wondered which other cafés, pubs and corner stores were participating in his ‘hunt the sinner’ campaign.

I soon had confirmation of how fast things were spreading. Back at the
Gazette
I took calls from both Duncan Todd and Isaac within the space of three hours.

Duncan first. ‘I thought you should know, Brodie, one of my snitches tells me these independent lawmen of yours are getting nominations direct from the public-minded citizens of Trongate.’

‘They’re not
my
lawmen, Duncan. I’m above the battle.’

‘Oh aye. That sounds like you.’

‘Be that as it may. How are they doing it? I’ve just seen an operation over at Gallowgate. Instructions chalked on the wall. Details of transgressions to be left in an envelope at a local café. Name, address and alleged crime.’

‘Same here. But they’re touting for business by word of mouth at the local. You know how fast the grapevine is. Shagged at teatime, shamed by breakfast. They’re passing the word to drop nominations into the Scotia on Stockwell. Then someone picks it up . . .’

‘. . . and justice is dished out.’

‘Exactly. There’s only been one so far. A known wife-beater. Broken arms, nose, and teeth. Between you and me, he was due it. A big bullying bastard. Wish I’d seen it.’

‘Don’t sound so wistful, Dunc. The next one could be innocent.’

‘Oh, I know. But it’s the same gang a’ right. They’d cut off his pinkie. You still not mentioning it in the paper?’

‘It’s not consistent. But mainly I’m now minded to say nothing in public.’

I could almost see Duncan nodding. ‘Differentiates them. We don’t want copycats. Ah’ve not made a thing of it either.’

‘So what are you going to do about it in Central, Duncan? Are you and Sangster talking?’

‘He gets his boy to talk to me.’

‘Murdoch? Sergeant 71?’

‘That’s him. An arse-licker. Anyroad, I’ve put two o’ my guys in plain clothes in the Scotia. No shortage of volunteers. I might do a stint myself. We’ll cover it for a few days and see what happens.’

‘Sounds like fun. Call me if you catch them, Duncan. I’d like a quiet word with their boss. Alone.’

‘Your uninvited guests? I read that too. I’ll bear it in mind, Brodie.’

Then Isaac. ‘Douglas? I may have something for you.’

‘Let me guess. You’ve been asked to gather some envelopes?’

He switched to German. ‘Ach no. Not me. But the bagel shop in Portland Street. You know what’s going on?’

‘The vigilantes are inviting the public to tell them who to punish. They’re using pubs and cafés to collect targets. And now a
bagel
shop? At least they’re not anti-Semitic.’

‘Small comfort. The word went round the synagogue on Friday like a comet. Everybody was talking about it.’

‘Are any of them tempted to clype on their neighbours?’

‘Oh, everyone says no. They all say it’s immoral. But, Douglas, I tell you, some of our people are a little more, how you say, old book than others. An eye for an eye, you know? I fear it will be used to get even. False accusations.’