Bitter Water (36 page)

Rankin took longer. He read it twice. He folded the paper and laid it down on the table. He gazed at me. ‘All a bit tenuous, Brodie. The
Herald
wouldn’t print it.’

‘It doesn’t need to be reported in parliament for it to be news.’

‘It might be news or gossip. Call it what you will. But is it true, Brodie?’

‘Ask Miss Campbell.’ I turned to Sam.

‘Kenny, we were there. Douglas and me. We saw the bodies at Balloch. The police doctor in attendance said he could smell the chloroform on them.’ She took a breath. ‘I know what that’s like. Something similar happened to me back in April. It was probably the same men.’

Silence filled the room like a blanket. Moira looked stricken. Then Rankin stirred himself.

‘You’re keeping strange company these days, Samantha.’ Did he mean me? ‘All very interesting, I’m sure, but why are you telling me this? A wee round of applause for your detective work, Brodie?’

‘The men who did this’ – I pointed at the paper – ‘are former members of the Slattery gang. They now work for the Maxwells.’

‘Maxwell? Do they indeed? I heard Colin had some new staff. He’s got a big place to run. Always needing new hands.’

‘To carry out murders?’ I saw his face darken and his mouth grow thin. I pushed on. ‘We think Charlie Maxwell hired them to do some dirty work. We think that the dirty work was to protect his money-making plans for the new Glasgow development programme. There may even be a link to the murder of Councillor Alec Morton.’

‘Damned nonsense! Beg pardon, Samantha. But damned nonsense. Colin Maxwell’s boy? Never! Known them all my days.’

Moira suddenly sat forward. ‘What are you saying, Mr Brodie? What exactly are you saying?’

‘I’m saying that there are a number of legitimate opportunities for developers and investors in Glasgow’s future. A great big birthday dumpling filled to bursting with silver sixpenny bits. But some folk want more than their share and don’t care what crimes they commit to get their hands on a bigger slice. I’m saying that anyone who’s linked to these crimes could be facing murder charges.’

Rankin had had enough. He lurched to his feet, face red, shoulders hunched and fists clenched as though he was going to charge me. ‘That’s enough, Brodie! How dare you! Who the hell do you think you are? Coming into my home and making accusations at me!’

I resisted the urge to stand. I kept my voice calm. ‘Is that what you think? I don’t recall accusing you of anything,
Sir
Kenneth. But now you raise the matter: what exactly is your relationship with the Maxwells?’

‘None of your bloody business, my man!’

‘Kenny, Kenny, don’t upset yourself! Your heart.’ Moira was now on her feet beside him and clutching his arm. ‘He’s not saying anything. He’s not saying
you’ve
done anything. He’s being stupid. Just stupid.’

I really seem to have upset her with my accusations. ‘Lady Rankin, I may not be saying anything that points the finger at your husband. But Elsie Sheridan is. You know, Jimmie’s widow.’ I let that sink in and saw the first signs of retreat on Rankin’s florid face.

‘Sit down, my dear. Sit down.’ Moira coaxed her man back and into his seat. She marched over and rang the bell. Calumn came in. ‘Get me a Scotch, please. For Sir Kenneth.’ She looked round at Sam and me. ‘Och, make that four, Calumn.’

Drinks were brought and set out in front of us in cut-crystal glasses. They were, even by Scottish standards, stoaters, suggesting Calumn was well used to the large appetites of his master and mistress. It also accounted for Rankin’s complexion.

Moira took a big gulp and made sure her man did too. She turned to me. ‘Now, I’m not as clever as you pair, so you’ll have to spell things out slowly for me. Just what exactly are you saying, Mr Brodie?’ There was ice all over her words.

I looked at Sam. She nodded. I started.

‘I met Jimmie Sheridan’s wife Elsie a couple of weeks back. She says Jimmie’s been keeping luxurious company of late. Councillor Sheridan is – or rather was – in charge of the regeneration plan. For the last year he’s been living beyond his means. New suits, fancy restaurants. Two months ago, after Alec Morton was murdered, Jimmie seemed to have won the pools. Bought himself a new car and a new flat in Hyndland and installed his lady friend.’ Moira couldn’t help turning her head and looking at her husband with worry frowns across her face.

‘Elsie gave us names of the company Sheridan was keeping. Three were prominent. Sir Colin Maxwell, Tom Fowler . . . and Sir Kenneth Rankin.’

‘That proves nothing, Brodie! Accusations from some tramp from the Gorbals!’ she shot back.

‘What does Sir Kenneth have to say?’ I asked, looking at him. His glass was empty and he was breathing hard. His eyes were flame-throwers.

‘I’ll tell you what I have to say,
Major
Douglas Brodie! You’ll be looking for a new job by this time tomorrow. I know the chairman of your paper’s board. When you leave here, in the next few minutes, I will be calling him and telling him that if his rag prints a single mention of my name in connection with this . . . pack of lies and calumnies . . . I will sue him until I have brought the house down around him. Do I make myself clear?’

We left Rankin fuming like a volcano. His wife showed us the door. As we walked to the car, she slipped out and spoke quietly to Sam as she was about to get into the car.

‘You know I have to support him.’

‘Of course, Moira. I’m sorry. So sorry.’

‘Look, I’ll talk to him when he quietens down. How can I get in touch?’

Sam looked at me across the top of the car. I shrugged.

‘We’re at the Tarbet Hotel for a day or two.’

Moira nodded and we drove off.

We said nothing to each other for the first mile or so.

‘He took it well, I thought.’

‘Shut up, Brodie.’

I looked across. She was crying. ‘Kenny and his first wife were kind to me when I lost my parents. I stayed there for a few days. What a damned mess.’

‘It’s going to get worse.’

FORTY-NINE

I
nstead of heading back down to the seafront and round the way we came, we turned up the hill and then cut across the winding roads through Glen Fruin and back down to Loch Lomond. We turned north again with the loch on our right. A wind was whipping up the water, sending waves pulsing against the shore. Dark clouds tumbled overhead, breaking up the shafts of sunlight and turning the loch into a dangerous inland sea.

We got back to the hotel, and I made a phone call to the
Gazette
. Eddie was waiting. In fact Eddie had champed through his bit.

‘How the effin’ hell am I supposed to run an effin’ newspaper when nane of my so-called reporters are gi’ing me any effin’ reports?’

‘Eddie, relax. You’ve got a terrific front page this morning. I bet there’s wailing and gnashing of teeth at the
Record
and the
Herald
.’

‘Aye well, that may be so. But it disnae get you and McAllister off the hook, Brodie! I need you here. Sangster’s already been shouting down the phone at me. And his boss has been shouting at
my
boss. They think we’re trying to do their job. That we’re holding back something. You’re not, Brodie, are you?’ A plaintiveness crept into his voice; the sound of a man losing his hold on the rope he was dangling from. Over the precipice.

‘Am I trying to do
his
job? No thanks. Am I holding anything back? I’m telling you everything as soon as I find it, Eddie. On which point, you’d better know what we’ve been up to this morning . . .’ I told him about the meeting with Sir Kenneth Rankin. I said my impression was that Rankin wasn’t a killer and that all signs pointed to the Maxwells. But Rankin had taken the hump and there might be an uncomfortable phone call or two in the offing. There was a short silence when I finished. Then Eddie spoke, quietly and slowly.

‘Oh. Christ. We. Are. Fucked.’ The rope had just snapped.

‘Not necessarily, Eddie. He might be bluffing.’

‘Sir Kenny Rankin disnae bluff. He’s wan o’ the hardest wheeler-dealers in Scotland. And you’ve chosen to cross him. And he’ll tell his pal Maxwell. Ah might as well throw masel’ oot the window, right noo.’

‘Eddie, before you do, can you pass the phone to McAllister?’

‘He’s no’ here.’

‘Did you give him my message yesterday?’

‘He didnae show yesterday. No’ that it matters any more.’ His voice was lead. His career in tatters. His family already on their way to the poorhouse.

‘Eddie! Is there any way I can contact Wullie? Have you tried?’

‘Aye, well, we sent a telegram round to his brother, Stewart. He phoned back this morning. Says he didnae come home last night. Nor the night afore. Said it wisnae the first time, but even so. You can call him yourself, if you like. There’s a call box just outside his house. Somebody will get him.’ Not that he cared, now that his life was over.

I wrote down the call-box number, feeling a knot grow in my stomach. ‘Anything else, Eddie? Jamie Frew? Duncan Todd? Any of my contacts?’

‘What? Oh, aye. They bampots again. The Marshals. A new number. Call afore noon they said. He sounded pissed off too. In fact you’ve managed to piss off everybody, Brodie. That’s a rare talent you’ve got.’

I started with McAllister’s brother. The phone rang for a while until a kid answered.

‘Hello?’

‘Can you run into the close and get Mr McAllister to come down?

‘Aye. Nae bother, mister. Hing on.’

A few minutes later I heard the box door open and the handset get picked up. Then a man’s voice: ‘Hello?’

‘Stewart McAllister?’

There was a hesitation. ‘That’s me. Is that Douglas Brodie?’

‘That’s right, Stewart. I’ve just spoken to Eddie Paton at the
Gazette
.’

‘I was expecting you. Any news from Bill?’ It was a smoke-roughened voice, but educated, like a teacher with a sixty-a-day habit. I guessed roll-ups were a family vice.

‘Bill? Wullie? No, ’fraid not. We were hoping you’d heard something.’

‘I call him Bill. Wullie, then. In the past when he’s been hot on the trail of something he’s been out all night. But he always tells me. This time, nothing. He’s been gone two nights. And there’s something else. He left a letter for you.’

‘When?’

‘Oh, about a week back. It says: “To be given to Douglas Brodie
in extremis
.”’

‘Is this
extremis
, Stewart?’

‘It could be.’

‘Can you open it and read it to me?’

‘Well, it’s up the stair and anyway, it’s not something I’d do. This is for you. You need to come and get it.’

‘I don’t even know where Wullie lives. Where you live.’

‘Govan. Summertown Road.’

I thought about it for a moment. It wouldn’t take long. We could be there in an hour. And I owed it to Wullie. Bill? He wasn’t a Bill. ‘Are you in this afternoon?’

Next I called the number left by the Marshals. There was the now familiar background tussle as the pub or café owner handed over the phone to the occupying force of Drummond and his boys.

‘What now, Drummond?’

‘You know who it is, don’t you, Brodie?’

‘Know who?’

‘Don’t play with me! It’s clear from the
Gazette
this morning. You know who killed the queers. You know it wasn’t me. Tell me who!’

‘I don’t
know
anything, Drummond. It’s all guesswork at this stage.’

‘Don’t bloody well hold back on me, Brodie! This is my neck at stake.’

‘You should have thought of that before you started your Bible campaign, Drummond. As ye sow, so shall ye reap is how it goes, I believe.’

‘For pity’s sake, Brodie. Think of my men.’

‘So, I give you a couple of names and what do you do? Let me see. Oh yes, there’s a pattern. You’d try them – without a defence lawyer, of course – find them wanting, and then punish them. That’s how it goes, isn’t it, Drummond?’

‘I’ll get him to confess. Or them. Whoever it is, I’ll bring them in. Hand them over to the police.’

‘Why would you start doing it legally now? No, I’ll keep my suspicions to myself for the time being. Keep your head down.’ I hung up.

I sat in the booth and smoked until the air grew too foul. As Sam had said this morning, what a damned mess.

She insisted on coming with me to Govan. We crossed the Clyde by the Erskine Ferry and drove along the south bank past the nodding cranes of the big yards. They said business was booming again, but I don’t know where the investment money was coming from. Nor how long it woulld last. Everybody knew the shipyards were using tools handed down from the Victorians. The early Victorians. And many of them were struggling to convert back from their wartime munitions role. The British Government wasn’t about to help. Apart from being broke, they were too busy dreaming up plans for the utopian welfare state to worry about Clydeside jobs.

As we turned into Govan we could see that Clydebank on the north side hadn’t been the only area hit by the Luftwaffe. Govan had been a prime target. Here and there a stick of bombs had skittled a new alleyway through three or more parallel streets. Factories stood gutted with grass growing through the tumbled mounds of bricks and earth. Packs of weans ran through the bomb sites like plague dogs at the end of time.