Bitter Water (37 page)

Somertown Road scarcely lived up to its name. It was just another row of blackened tenements. We parked by the phone box outside the McAllister residence – the usual dark entry to a three-storey set of six or eight flats – and were immediately surrounded by over-excited kids all wanting to leave their grubby fingerprints on the car.

‘Mister, mister, Ah’ll watch your car fur ye!’ ‘Naw, ye’ll no’. Ah’ll dae it.’ ‘See you!’

‘Why aren’t you lot at school?’

A grinning ragamuffin replied, ‘We’ve a’ got impetigo, mister. The hale class.’

I looked round them all and now saw the tell-tale red blisters and dried scabs. They all looked mighty pleased with themselves.

‘Well, don’t you come near me or the car. Understand?’

We left them on the strict understanding that if any harm came to the Riley I would put on gloves and skelp their wee lugs till they rang. And then we’d get hold of their parents who’d no doubt add to their woes. I turned to look back as we entered the close. Four wee boys had taken up sentry duty, one at each corner of the car. They were standing rigidly to attention, ready to repulse enemies intent on nicking our wheels.

FIFTY

T
he brothers McAllister lived on the top floor, one of two flats sharing a toilet on the stair landing. The door opened promptly on our first knock. Stewart McAllister ushered us in.

I don’t know what I’d been expecting, but it wasn’t this neat and tidy house. The entrance hall led on through to a back room. We turned left and stepped into the front room and kitchen. A three-piece suite in brown corduroy overwhelmed a strongly patterned carpet, which covered most of the dark linoleum. Antimacassars perched in regimented order over both armchairs and the two segments of couch. Three ducks flew above a tiled mantelpiece and surround. Off to one side of the room ran a small scullery. A kettle rocked on a gas ring. A wireless hummed and glowed on a chest of drawers in the corner, its volume turned down low but sounding faintly of the Home Service. A cigarette smouldered in an ashtray on the coffee table in front of the settee.

Stewart was unexpected too. Stupidly, I’d pictured a more or less twin image of Wullie, a bit younger but still lanky and thin-haired with a fag hanging from his mouth. But Stewart was chunkier and his thick dark hair was Brylcreemed and parted precisely down the middle. His moustache was a thin line of careful grooming. An altogether more dapper version of his brother with worry frowns creasing his forehead.

‘No news, Stewart?’

‘Nothing. It’s no’ like him.’

Neither of us could voice the thought.

He shook himself. ‘Sit down, please. The kettle’s on. While I’m at it, here’s the letter he left for you.’

Sam and I sat. I tore open the envelope and recognised Wullie’s careful hand.

I handed the note to Sam just as Stewart brought in a teapot and three cups. I showed it to him while we sat and supped our tea. I was silently cursing myself for my sloppy investigation of the three dead homosexuals. And now it seemed too late. Had I dropped my standards as a reporter? What happened to all my police training? Just rusty or just weary?

Stewart’s face was white. ‘Do you think something’s happened? Something bad?’

‘I don’t know. He might have gone into hiding.
We
did, when we realised that someone was playing for keeps. I left messages for Wullie at the
Gazette
. Maybe he got one and is lying low.’

Stewart looked as convinced as I felt. I tapped the letter sitting on the table between us.

‘He’s right, Stewart. I’ve been careless. I didn’t do any background checking on the three men who were murdered.’

‘They were just poofs to you?’ said Stewart.

‘Aye. Just poofs. Did Wullie – Bill? – say anything about them?’

‘Wullie’s fine. It’s what everybody calls him. As for the poofs, he said it was just that they were other things beside.’

‘I don’t suppose he said what?’

‘They’re only queers by night.’

‘And by day?’ Damn. I could see where this was going

Stewart had lit another cigarette and was hunched forward on his chair. ‘Clerks.’

‘All three of them?’

‘No. He said the first one was, and one of the others. The one called Connie and one of the pair that were found in the People’s Palace.’

‘Were they, by any chance,
council
clerks?’

He nodded. ‘Apparently.’

I could hardly ask it. ‘Council clerks in the Planning or Finance Departments?’

‘Aye, even so.’

‘Bugger.’

‘True, but no’ just, eh?’ Stewart found a half-smile.

‘When did Wullie find out?’

‘That’s what threw him. Seems he’d been getting bits and pieces from them for a wee while, but they’d been sending them anonymously.’

‘Did he say
how
he’d found out?’

‘Just talk. Round about. Wullie’s contacts.’

‘These bits and pieces . . .?’

‘You’ll be wanting them?’ At that he got up and walked out of the room.

I looked at Sam and shrugged apologetically.

She asked, ‘Wullie never mentioned he’d been getting anonymous papers?’

‘He said he’d got some, but not how. But it explains a fair bit.’

‘Here you go.’ Stewart came back carrying a shoebox. He handed it to me. Inside was a small folded pile of foolscap documents. They seemed to be second or third carbon copies. I flicked through them. Each was marked ‘Highly confidential’. Each referred to new or draft contracts being prepared for some aspect of the regeneration project. None was signed but all had signature blocks prepared for James Sheridan and dated from last year through to three weeks ago. By themselves they didn’t spell out corruption. But I wondered how many of the signed originals had been minuted in council meetings, far less promulgated in the newspapers and on public notice boards in the council offices. I also guessed the originals might have some scribbles on them. Some added points in the fair hand of Sheridan and the lucky contractor perhaps. Was this what Wullie had hoped to get his hands on through his contacts with the dead men? It would take some thorough backtracking and research to piece it all together. I handed them to Sam and she began to sift them.

‘Why didn’t he show me them before, if he thought he was in danger?’

Stewart coloured. ‘You ken Wullie. It was
his
scoop. His last hurrah, he said.’ He pointed at the box. ‘You can keep them.’

I shook my head. ‘They’re safer here. We’re on the move just now.’

We gave him the number of the Tarbet Hotel and he saw us to the landing.

‘Listen, do you think they’ve got him?’ he asked. His face couldn’t hide the fear.

‘I don’t know, Stewart. But if they’d harmed him we’d have heard about it by now. We soon knew about the murders. And Wullie is a wily old bird. He can take care of himself.’

It sounded weak even to me. But what else could I say? That I thought the Slattery boys had pounced again?

The Riley had all four wheels. We gave the lads a shilling to split between them and set off back up to Loch Lomond. The evening was gathering in as we drove along the waterside.

We couldn’t face the echoing dining room and had some soup and cold chicken sent up to the room. We turned in early, Sam to the bedroom, me to the couch facing the picture window.

They came for us in the night.

FIFTY-ONE

I
t was no more than a movement of air. A half-perception of a presence in the room. I was instantly and fully awake. The couch I slept on faced the window. Its high back kept me hidden from the door. Everything depended on whether the intruder knew the layout of the room and whether he assumed Sam and I were sharing a bed.

There was no light from the door to the hall, which meant he’d killed the hall light. And maybe the hall porter. The thick carpet deadened the footfalls but I could sense him moving away from me towards the bedroom door. Then I heard another sound near the hall door. Two of them. The second man moved faster across the carpet to join his pal by the bedroom door. They were about to rush it. Their backs would be to me. It was my best chance.

If they had guns I was a dead man. If they had knives the odds improved. A little. I gathered myself under the quilt, gripped its heavy folds by the edge and rolled to my feet. Remembering my drill, I charged the dark figures with a banshee screech and saw them jerk and turn just before I hit them.

I drove them back against the door and tried to smother them with the quilt. They staggered and cursed in my heavy embrace but kept their feet. I flailed at where their heads should be and connected with one. He tripped and dragged the quilt with him. It uncovered the other man. He swung at me and I saw the long blade glint in the moonlight. I caught it in the fold of the material. I let it fall, dragging his knife hand downwards. I threw a punch and hit him on the side of his neck.

It drew a gasp and an oath. His hand went up to his throat and I followed up with a left which connected with his cheekbone. With both hands I grabbed his knife arm at the wrist and pulled him towards me. As I pulled I turned and dragged his arm over my right shoulder. I wrenched downwards and heard something break in the elbow. He screamed and dropped the heavy knife.

The first man was kicking at the quilt and clambering to his feet. He saw his pal go down and lunged at me with his dagger. I threw myself backward and he missed. I fell over the other man who was kneeling, gasping, and holding his damaged arm. I rolled and sprang up. I was near the coffee table in front of the couch. I knew it held two things.

The knife man sprang at me just as I picked up the ashtray and flung its contents at his face. A cloud of ash and fag ends hit him full on. He choked and coughed and lost his bearings long enough for me to smash the bottle of Glen Grant over his head. He staggered back, clutching his face, just as the bedroom door swung open. Light filled the room.

Framed in the doorway stood Sam in her dressing gown. She was holding something in her hand. In both hands. There was an explosion and a flash and the big picture window behind me erupted in a great crescendo of splintering glass.

‘Hands up! Hands up!’ she shouted over the echoing report of the Webley.

Whether they were brave or stupid, the two injured men chose to ignore her, and simply made a dash for the door. I waited for the next shot and the likely chance of a bullet in the chest. Sam should know that she couldn’t be sure of her aim. She was standing with the bedroom light behind her, facing into a shadowed room with three figures flailing about holding a quilt. Any one of them could be me. I hoped she still thought of me fondly. She held fire. The men tumbled out through the door.

‘Sam! Give me the gun!’ I ran over to her and grabbed it from her firm grip. I ran to the door and out on to the landing. It was pitch dark but I could hear the pair of them tumbling and running down the stairs. I looked over the side and saw them hit the bottom and spring out into the entrance hall, one of them carrying his arm like a wounded bird. I took aim but just then another figure stumbled into view. He was clutching his head and bent double. I pulled the gun back and ran down the stairs. The front door crashed open, then slammed shut again.

The man who’d staggered into the hall fell at my feet. It was the night porter. He was clutching his belly. His hands were leaking blood. He was moaning. The side of his face was bruised and bloody. I stopped to tend to him. I gently pulled his hands away. He’d taken a knife in the side. I couldn’t tell if it had sliced anything vital. It’s hard to know with a stomach wound. I jumped up and grabbed a cushion from a chair. I pushed it into his side and made him hold it in place. It might not stem it, but it should slow down the flow.

Outside, I heard car doors slam and an engine start up. I ran to the door, opened it and looked out. The car was spinning wheels on the gravel and shooting off down the drive. It had no lights on. I couldn’t see number plates or even make out the type of car, but it was big and powerful.

I walked back in, gun in hand, in my pyjamas and bare feet. Sam was kneeling by the injured porter. Lights were coming on. She looked up at me.

‘All you had to do was knock, Brodie.’